


In the hollow of their footprints

by oftachancer



Series: here in this moment [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Asunder - Fandom, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Implied/Referenced Torture, Lyrium Troubles, M/M, Memory Loss, Multi, Polyamory, Relationship Negotiations, Romance, Spirits, Time Magic, Time Travel, branch narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21994081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftachancer/pseuds/oftachancer
Summary: Aran Trevelyan has survived explosions, demons, avalanches, bandits, lyrium-infused Templars, time travel, and dragons. He’s been torn from his world and thrust into parallel universes where things are not quite but almost familiar. Once a Chantry scholar, he has found his world turned upside down and scattered asunder too many times to count, but he’s always had a goal: to survive and make it home. To his world. To the people who rely on him. To the men he loves. Those were his guiding lights, the stars by which he organized his choices.Now one of those men has followed him through time again, risking everything, to find a way to bring him home for good.If they can both survive the trip.
Relationships: Cole/Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Evangeline de Brassard/Rhys, Fenris/Male Hawke
Series: here in this moment [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1162070
Comments: 20
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

“Kaffas!” Dorian rasped, clasping Aran to him. His knees were trembling. His spine felt too hot. Only, he wasn’t warm at all; he was cold. _Maker, so blighted cold_. But the power… Ah, the power was… incredible, pumping through him, seizing him with an almost frantic energy. Enthralling. Nauseating. “Is it like this every time? This… sensation of being slurped as though I’m hot soup? I don’t recall the amulet creating quite this sensory experience.” He panted, “Then again, the amulet was a culmination of study, runes, and incantations whereas the blood magic that most assuredly powered the blade that set you upon your course lacked any special definition to my knowledge. Perhaps that’s why-“

Aran could only stare; Dorian’s mouth was still moving, those full lips all thoughtful frown and quirks of wonder, but the words faded in and out of his comprehension. He looked at the dagger, then the blood dripping from the joining of their still-clasped hands to the snow around their feet in a bright red constellation. “What.” Outdoors. Standing, huddled, in deep snow. Deep snow being steadily drilled by the heat of their blood. His blood. And Dorian’s blood. He’d traveled. But Dorian… “What the- ow! You’re… _here?_ How. _How_ are you-?”

“An experiment, obviously,” Dorian rolled his eyes, carefully parting their hands to peer at the wounds in their palms. “And a successful one, it appears. I love when a hypothesis is proved, don’t you?” He shivered, brushing falling flakes from Aran’s cheek, leaving a trail of tiny red droplets amidst the man’s freckles. He smoothed them with his thumb, only succeeding in making his cheek look flushed. They were surrounded by snow-flocked trees. “We couldn’t have gone somewhere a trifle warmer?”

“An experiment,” Aran repeated, perplexed.

“Yes. Your elvhen protege followed your path by blood twice, so it seemed rather straightforward.”

“My what did what?” Aran shook his head, his heart racing, “I don’t- are you _mad_? Are you quite, _quite_ insane? _Blood magic_?” he hissed the last words in a horrified hush.

“It isn’t-“ Dorian frowned. “Well, I suppose, technically, it is. Something to think about another time. Let’s just hope no one was watching. Maker knows I wouldn’t want to give them the satisfaction.”

“Why, for all that is good and holy in the world, _why_ would you do this? Why-” He broke off with a strangled shout as the Anchor burst with green light, mirroring the color of the verdant tear in the air a few feet away. Aran swore fluently, shaking out his hand. “Sodding, fucking, son of a-“ The blood flecked from his injured palm to spatter on the snow as the glow in his other palm flexed and ruptured; he held it aloft and screamed through gritted teeth, opening a shimmering, shattering channel between anchor and rift that buzzed and seared the space between. Aran stumbled, swathed in the soft blue gleam of Dorian’s barrier, as the rift snapped closed again before it could release any demons. 

Of course, that did little to stop the demons catapulting to ground around them from the open hole in the sky. “No!” Dorian grabbed Aran’s rising wrist with a shake of his head, “You’re still recovering. Come with me.” He pulled and Aran staggered after him.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re overrun. We can’t take them all. We need to find shelter. Judging by the relative location of that tear in the heavens, we must be close to Haven, yes? This area looks marginally familiar.”

“From the frying pan to the feckin’ fire- We don’t know who’s there, who’s in charge, whether they would recognize us or think we’re the cause of this- I’ve been in that interrogation cell. I don’t want to be there again-”

A pair of shadows streaked to earth, cracking a nearby tree in half. “I would prefer aggressively negotiating with Cassandra and Leliana to being torn apart by demons. Wouldn’t you?”

“Shit fuck godsdamnit,” Aran relented as they took off at a run, dodging blasts from the sky and from the wisps that were already present. The sounds of shouting and screams echoed throughout the valley as the world around them seemed to crack and crumble. 

* * *

To let go was to risk everything. Everything. _Everything_. But they couldn’t very well protect each other if they were running around hand in hand. Aran crouched at the door to the hunter’s cabin and extricated his sticky fingers from Dorian’s, “May I have my blade back.”

“What? Oh, yes, certainly.” 

Aran popped one of the twists of the hilt and drew out a pick to work the lock. “Listen, this is very serious. You have to stay close to me. You know how quickly the traveling comes on. Don’t wander off. We are hip to hip until we make it back to our world. Do you understand?” 

Dorian lifted a brow. “Of course.”

“If I leave without you, I might never find you again,” Aran said very slowly and clearly. “I might never come back to this place or this time. Or I might, but time will have passed differently and… Do you understand?” he repeated.

“I've already said that I do. Aran, I grasp the circumstances. It’s possible I didn’t think this through entirely - or at all - when I followed along, but...”

“You _think_?!” Aran snapped, then shook his head, “Sorry. _Sorry_. I’m… oh, I’m… _very._ _Angry_. With you right now. I mean, this is really the _stupidest_ thing you’ve ever done. What could have _possessed_ you to-” He blew out a long stream of breath, fogging the air between them. “Not the time.”

“No, please, go on. I adore being called a fool.”

“I didn’t say _you_ were. I said _this_ is-“

“I know what you said.”

Aran exhaled sharply, ruffling his bangs. The latch gave under his pick and the door swung inwards. Inside, there were signs of a hasty retreat. Aran collected some abandoned coins into a pouch and went digging for supplies. “Look around and see what you can scrounge. We need layers for the cold. Healing herbs. Food. Boots. The Breach is recent,” he rubbed at his palm irritably. “And you’re right. I remember this hut, a version of it. We’re near where the Conclave was. The remains of the Divine’s guard will be on high alert. I need to hide the anchor and my eyes. And you need to… Ah, damn... do you think you can you be a little less… you?” 

Dorian glanced down at himself. His Tevinter-cut robes were sodden with melted snow; definitely out of place in Haven’s landscape. Not to mention _frigid_. At least Aran had leather pants and a jacket; they weren’t armor, certainly, but they were warmer than Dorian’s few flimsy layers of decadent Imperial silk and Orlesian cloth-of-gold. “A bit suspicious, am I?”

“It’s not- I mean, yeah. Any mage, let alone a mage from Tevinter, after a giant explosion of a meeting to decide the fates of the mages of southern Thedas, is not a good thing to be. But also, you’re you.”

Dorian eyed him, drawling, “Yes…?”

“No, you’re _you_. And we don’t know if there’s a you already here. Or if there will be. Or… you know what I mean.”

“Surprisingly, I do.” Mollified, Dorian opened a chest and found a stock of rustic armor. Goatskin and nug-leather and druffalo pauldrons; it all stank to high heaven, but it would be warm. Not to mention substantially more protective than their more aesthetic garments. He hefted the pauldrons and tossed them to Aran. “If it’s anything like where we came from, I won’t have departed Tevinter yet. Around the time of the Breach, I was running down leads on what Alexius was up to. Does that help?” 

“It won’t help the Dorian who shows up in Redcliffe if there’s already been a him wandering around Ferelden.” 

Dorian shrugged, “There’s a tear in the sky and demons dropping who affect the flow of time regularly. I’m certain, to reasonable minds, it won’t seem that odd.” 

“Reasonable minds,” Aran laughed darkly. “The Divine was just murdered, along with a quarter of the reasonable minds in Thedas. Who do you imagine is going to be stopping to ask questions?”

“You did.” In the silence that followed, Dorian studied his lover’s scrunched brow. _Why must he be so particularly lovely when he’s thinking?_ “You’re still angry with me.”

“Of course I am! I’m _furious_ ,” he spat. “You’ve put yourself at risk, in _danger_ , and for what? I could murder you, but first I have to keep us alive.”

“You? Keep _us_ alive?” Dorian’s tone arched like an angry cat, if only to conceal the hurt. “Rather counterproductive if you’ve got your heart set on that murdering plot, but I won’t complain. Perhaps I’ll even assist you in your endeavor; from the sidelines, of course.”

“I didn’t- you keep- just-“ Aran grunted, exasperated. “Just stay close and try to… I don’t know, figure out a way to blend in. Here.” He tossed a cloak which landed heavy in Dorian’s arms. 

“Thank you.”

A beat. A memory. A steady look passed between them. 

“...I’m sorry.” Aran’s eyes softened as he sank heavily to the cot beside the wardrobe. “I’m- fuck, I’m being a right shit to you. I know. I need to- I’m just- I’m bloody _scared_. I can’t lose you,” he whispered. “I can’t.”

“Here I was about to say the same thing.”

“That I’m being a shit?” Aran joked weakly.

“That, too.” Dorian picked his way across the detritus of the cabin and took a seat beside him, wrapping the cloak around them both. “We are going to make it through this, Aran. You and I are going home, together.”

“Oh, aye?”

“I’m certain of it. I have several working theories which will be much easier to verify with the addition of first hand experience. And, incidentally,” he added as Aran bristled anew beside him, “I love you. That seems to make quite a few impossible things seem probable.”

Against his shoulder, he felt Aran’s tension melt as the rogue leaned solidly against him. “Do you now?” he asked quietly.

“Obscenely.” 

“I hadn’t thought I needed those words.” Dorian watched as Aran’s fingers crept across to tangle with his own. “Not the first time I’ve been wrong.”

For a time, they sat listening to the havoc outside. The booms and bursts. The thunder of the world cracking asunder. The walls of the cabin were lovingly repaired, but hardly a fortress. But the two men sitting side by side, tethered by interlaced fingers and emotion and pure will, were strong enough on their own.


	2. Chapter 2

“I hadn’t realized it was quite so expansive,” Dorian murmured, peering out through a small crack in a boarded window. “You really did a great deal to weaken the Breach before we sealed it, didn’t you?”

“We did; we couldn’t have succeeded otherwise, Solas said.” Aran was winding cloth that Dorian had warded around his hand, trying to get it to sit so that it would conceal his anchor and also allow him to grip his dagger easily. This was his fourth attempt. They’d given up on leather, but the cloth seemed to be almost as troublesome. “Closing the other rifts around Ferelden and finding all those elvhen artifacts to strengthen the Veil… well, it did what he said it would: my hand hurt less, we slowed the expansion of the anchor and the Breach, and it gave us a chance.”

“And you did the rest.”

“We all did.”

“Yes, of course. I remember. And I remember it was you who stood there while pulses of the Fade streamed between you and the Breach, and you who could barely walk straight for two days after. But never mind all that. Let’s focus on the group effort.” Dorian gazed at the rendered sky, its verdant power spilling forth, “It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it? Terrifying, of course, but beautiful. Mesmerizing, even.”

“Try not to stare at it too much. It made gibbering idiots of a few mages.”

“As if I could ever be either gibbering or an idiot,” Dorian scoffed, but he did look away. He had sliced through the priceless layers of his festive robes to procure a somewhat transparent band of azure cloth to bind around Aran’s eyes, then used the rest to fashion a cowl and hood for himself, stitching spells into the hems. Once those were done and donned - _warm, thank Andraste_ \- Dorian set to work making bespelled poultices of the herbs they’d found in a cupboard to bind the cuts in their hands; a healer would have done a better job with herbs alone, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Bloody sons of the Blight,” Aran swore, tossing the cloth to the side irritably. “I need gloves. This is feckin’ ridiculous.” 

Every flex of the Breach above made him cringe, and little wonder. Dorian hadn’t forgotten the agony Aran had experienced before they’d sealed the Breach, not to mention just after. For a time, at Skyhold, after the demon had been removed, it had seemed as though he might finally have some freedom from that suffering, but in the months since they’d retrieved the Whisperer from his hidden thaig, Dorian had watched as the Anchor tore at Aran anew. Still not as deeply as before, but it was clearly painful. And that was with smaller rifts that he closed and opened. To face the unimpeded Breach yet again… Dorian sighed, crossing to him, “Let me see.” He took Aran’s hand in his, tracing the sides of his palm with his thumbs, “Is it spreading again?”

“No, thank the gods. When Solas casts a spell, he casts it to last.” 

“That’s something in our favor.” Dorian turned his lover’s hand this way and that. Long, nimble fingers, calloused where he gripped his blades too tightly. He kissed the backs of Aran’s knuckles and retrieved the cloth. “Where do we go from here?”

“We figure out what’s going on.”

“Haven, then?”

“Aye, I suppose,” Aran nodded reluctantly, “If we can blend in. If it’s even there.”

That hadn’t occurred to him, but if history were different here, then development would be, too. “And then what?”

“I… this is surreal, you being here. I usually look for a way to help the Inquisition. Write letters to Leliana anonymously. Gather supplies and leave them where they can be found. Spread the word. Keep a low profile. Try not to fuck anything up.”

“A whisper campaign.”

Aran nodded. “It’s easier. Hard to explain showing up and disappearing at random intervals.”

“Not if you’re a spy.”

“Spy or mage or both. That’s usually the assumption, aye.” Aran flexed his fingers, “That’s better. Thank you. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I have the benefit of not being clouded by pain.” Dorian secured the approved cloth in place and turned Aran’s hand to check for gleaming green lights, internally patting himself on the back when he saw none. “To that end, there are two bottles of lyrium we found in that stash-“

“No-“

“Hear me out.”

“Dorian.” Aran pressed his forehead to Dorian’s, “Please.”

“You’re in pain. Your hands are shaking. You’re no good to either of us like this.”

Aran shuddered. 

“Can you just explain to me _why_.”

Aran frowned. “I…” he glanced past Dorian, his eyes widened. “Run!” 

As the far wall burst inwards with a flurry of sickening sanguine pellets, they fled to the door, skidding across the ice and making a beeline for the trees. They clambered up a hill, half-running and half-crawling through knee-deep drifts of soft, dry snow, crested, and slid down the other side. Panting and cursing, they slipped and struggled across another turn of the frozen river, diving beneath the shattered remains of a bridge as a massive shard broke from the sky and catapulted to the ground where they’d been, bursting with shades and a pair of sharp-edged Pride demons. 

Aran peered out from behind a boulder, shoulder to shoulder with Dorian. “Well, this sucks.”

“Entirely.” 

“Shield me? I can draw them off and circle back.”

“No.”

Aran frowned, “We can’t take this many.”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight. Even if I were inclined to let you risk your life in heroic feats, which I’m not-“

“Shite. Fuck. Gods bloody damn it.”

“Hip to hip, as you said.” Dorian patted his shoulder. “Cheer up. We’ve survived together in all sorts of quandaries.”

“You’re unreasonably calm about all of this.”

“You’re forgetting I’ve time-traveled to a world full of demons with you before.”

Aran snorted softly. “As if I could forget that.”

Dorian glanced at him. The warm study. The hint of his sideways smile. The pressure of their shoulders against each other in yet another harrowing situation. “And that turned out just fine as you’ll recall. We saved the day, went home, and not so long after, we sealed the Breach and you managed to seduce me. What we need now is a plan.”

“What we need are more bodies, preferably some with armor and swords.”

As if summoned by his words, a small swarm of armored bodies surged over a rise. And with them, a familiar face. 

“Die, demon scum!” Varric crowed, firing off bolts with precision into the more distant foes as three soldiers in varying stages of armor scrambled and slid down the slope towards the enemy.

“Did you _plan_ that?” Dorian asked as Aran winced and the sky thundered and cracked again. 

“Wouldn't it be impressive if I had?” he croaked. 

“You’re impressive enough as it is.” Dorian scoffed as Aran’s eyes warmed. “Don’t let it go to your head. There’ll be no living with you.” He flung a massive explosion of fire into the field of battle, rising from his crouch. “Do try to keep up, will you?”

“Aye,” Aran rolled his neck. “Time to risk and see what’s what.” 

* * *

“Apostate! Drop your weapons and hold!” One of the soldiers shouted as soon as the last of their adversaries fell into a smoldering heap. His voice was strong and commanding, but his arm holding his sword at the ready was shaking from exhaustion. It hadn’t been an easy fight by any stretch of the imagination, but they were all still standing.

“Ridiculous,” Dorian rolled his eyes. “We just helped them.”

“Just play along,” Aran gritted out of the side of his mouth.

“Honestly, I don’t even have a staff to put down. Not that I would, if I did.”

“Not _helping,_ ” Aran sang under his breath.

“What does he want me to do? Fall to the ground?”

“We’re on the same side!” Aran called, dropping to one knee to place his daggers on the ice.

“Hey, now, hold on,” Varric waded through the slurry of snow and ichor churned by the fighting. “Half-Glass? Is that you?” 

Aran blinked. 

“I thought your fighting looked familiar, but I didn’t recognize you all covered in snow and demon-guts! Then again, it’s hard to recognize anyone these days. No one looks good in Veil-Shredded-Beyond-Comprehension-Green. We full or empty on this last of days?”

“He knows you?” Dorian slipped to Aran’s side. “Half-Glass?” he inquired.

His lover gave a small shake of his head, pasting on a tight, bright grin, “Pretty sure it’ll work out, mate. Seems a shame for the world to end, eh,” Aran offered a jaunty thumbs up, his brogue thickening substantially and summoning images of sticky pubs full of mill workers. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know… helping the Divine save the world like a good Andrastian.” Varric’s expression darkened, “I was, anyway. Before all this.”

“Right. _This._ Feckin’ header, aye?”

“You could say that,” Varric sighed, then pointed, “Who’s your friend?”

“Davan,” Dorian spoke up with a courtly bow and flourish. “Of House Pelidanus. At your service.” 

Aran swiveled to look at him as Varric gave a low whistle. “Picked yourself up a _Vint._ Very _fancy_. There an explanation I’m going to hear at some point about how that came to pass, old friend?“

“You’ll hear it as soon as I can come up with good one,” Aran muttered, staring daggers at Dorian who replied with a small smile. 

“Well! Nice to meet you. I’m Varric Tethras,” Varric grinned. “Storyteller, rogue, and maker of pincushions,” he hoisted his adapted crossbow to his shoulder and only then did Dorian notice that he was missing the lower half of his right arm. “The talkative guy is Goram, and the other folks saving my ass today are Walters, Tiff, and Finn.” Varric turned to his people, “Anyone who read my book, this is Half-Glass the Vagabond.”

“I heard you’re a spy for Starkhaven,” Goram said, jutting his chin out stubbornly. He’d yet to lower his sword. “What are you doing in Ferelden?”

“What do you think I’m doing here? Trying to sort out this mess, same as everyone else. Why does this guy think I’m going to tell him anything?” Aran sighed dramatically, glancing at Dorian before he shot one arched brow in Varric’s direction.

“I’ve got this, Goram,” the dwarf patted the soldier on the shoulder. “He’s good people. Usually.”

“Now, Varric, when have I ever been anything but good to you?” 

“There was that time you put honey in Bianca’s gears.“

”Are you ever going to let that go?”

”Took me a week to clean her out.”

“That wasn’t bad; that was funny.”

“To you, maybe.”

“I recall Hawke and Isabella finding it amusing as well.”

“Yeah. So do I.” Varric’s eyes glinted, “But I’ve had a chance to get back at them since then. _You_ keep squeaking away clean.”

“You’ll have your moment someday, I’m sure.” Aran lifted his brows, “Why don’t we skip ahead and you tell me about the Breach?”

“Interesting; that’s what we’re calling it, too. The Nightingale’s got the survivors of the explosion in one of her fireside chats. Everyone’s holed up in Haven. We just came out to help with clearing a path to and from the blasting site and we’re headed back. Want to come?”

Aran hesitated. “Survivors?” he asked, “Plural?”

“Yeah. Come on. There’s ale,” Varric winked. “And secrets.”

“We would love to. Thank you so much for the invitation.” Dorian tucked his arm around Aran’s shoulders and squeezed, “I do like your friends, Amatus.”

“I’m going to murder you slowly,” Aran whispered.

Dorian laughed. “Promises, promises.”


	3. Chapter 3

“A tavern,” Aran snorted. “Of course you’d risk everything to go to a tavern.” Haven’s Singing Maiden was packed to the gills with anxious townsfolk and little else. 

“Risk?” Dorian inquired, “What risk? He knew you, you knew him, and he invited us. Before he comes back, how did he lose the arm?” 

“Ah- oh. Did I tell you about the red lyrium dragon?” 

“Yes. You came back to us from that fight.”

“Well. That bit him. Hard.” Aran winced, frowning across the room to where Varric was ordering at the bar. “I knew it was coming. I thought I could stop it. If I’d stayed, maybe I could have…”

“What? Gotten killed? Lost a limb yourself?”

Aran shifted uncomfortably, frowning. “Merrill and Bethany tried to heal him, but something about the lyrium and his resistance to magic just… yeah.” 

“He seems to be doing just fine.”

“He always _seems_ that way.”

Dorian lifted a brow, “Not always, sweet. I’ve witnessed him looking decidedly underwhelmed. What is the meaning behind Half-Glass, by the way?”

“I never asked,” Aran shrugged.

“I suppose you never asked about Quicksilver, either.”

“Nope.”

“You weren’t curious?”

“Why should I be? It’s a name. And it’s better than Inquisitor. Or, worse, Herald,” Aran shuddered dramatically. 

“I find his nicknames rather insightful, generally. He has, as you’ve noted yourself, a keen eye for detail.” 

“He grew on you while I was away, hm?”

“While you were _dead_. Yes. He did.” Dorian brushed Aran’s soft white hair behind his ear, “He’s a good friend to have. I was fortunate to inherit him and did a poor job of thanking him for his efforts in that regard.”

“Aye, same here.” He smiled thoughtfully, “You know, out of all the versions of people I’ve met, never have I met a Varric I didn’t like.”

“And it’s always Half-Glass here, is it? They don’t refer to you by any other names I should know?”

“My middle name,” Aran muttered. “I think that’s it.”

“Merciful Maker. I’ll stick with Amatus, shall I? It wouldn’t do to break down in guffaws every time I spoke about you, would it?”

“Now, that’s just hurtful. It’s not my favorite, I’ll grant you, but it’s not worthy of a guffaw,” Aran pouted, “There’s nothing wrong with Conchobar. It’s a strong name.”

“It strongly calls to mind a line of sweaty sailors taking shots out of giant shells at a rank seaside shanty.”

“Say that three times fast,” Aran deadpanned. “Anyway, that scene sounds right up your alley.”

” _Graviter vulneratus sum[1],”_ Dorian murmured in mock horror as he looked around the crowded tavern. The minstrel could barely be heard over the strained laughter and nervous chatter. “I’ve heard of Merril, I think. Who is Bethany?”

“Hawke’s sister. She was still born, I think, in our world. Or maybe never born at all. Marian never mentioned her.”

“And there’s no Carver in this world, I take it?”

“He died when they were escaping Lothering. They took it hard.”

“A pity, that,” Dorian’s tone softened, “He was a good fellow. I liked him. And the elder Hawke, here, is a man?”

“Right. He’s… odd.”

“ _He’s_ odd? You’re one to talk.”

Aran wrinkled his nose, “No, I just mean… Marian was difficult-”

”Understatement,” Dorian muttered.

”-but predictable. And Ariel was predictably diplomatic and kind. Seth is… never what I expect him to be.”

“This is a bad thing?” 

“For me, yes. Makes it hard to figure out what to do. For instance, the other Hawkes kept my involvement a secret from the others. And Seth… didn’t. He held a group meeting. Hard to work in shadows when someone’s shining a great light at you.”

“So they know what you are.”

“Not exactly.” Aran snorted. “They all have their own theories. They all think they’re right.” He bit his lip, “I’m going to need your help.”

“Juggling your various lies?”

“That, too, but more… I need liquor. Hard liquor.”

“You and I, both. So... you’re drinking again?” Dorian quirked a brow. “I thought that had gone the way of lyrium.”

“It’s difficult to assess where I am and what the Void is happening if I’m off my tit.” 

Dorian chuckled, nodding, “I’d assumed it was something like that.”

“But. Until we get access to some dragonthorn and ghillainain’s bounty - or at least some bloody prophet’s laurel, I’ll have to. Which means one of us will have to remain at least marginally sober. This feckin’…” he shook out his hand and Dorian could see him wincing. “I’d forgotten how bad it was at the beginning. Thought it was just the newness, but it really is worse. Something about the Breach expanding makes it just… burn and ache and sting at the same time.” He breathed deep, shivering. “House Pelidanus… this is a real thing, I hope?”

“They are not a ‘thing’; they are another Altus family. Davan was my cousin. Went a bit loony and became a recluse. Nice chap. Loved raising nugs. Terrible conversationalist, but he had inherited a wonderful library. You’d have liked him.”

“When we said you were going to blend in, I thought we agreed to subtlety.”

Dorian scoffed, “Never would have worked; Varric would have seen through the charade. This, at least, is a plausible alias, and it should hold up, provided it isn’t prodded _too_ severely.”

“Maybe,” Aran hedged, “but now Varric-“ he broke off as a series of mugs landed on the table. 

Varric slid into the bench across from them as the serving girl sashayed back to the bar. “Ferelden ale. I’ve learned not to ask for more details than that.” 

Dorian unwrapped his cowl and let it fall back. His hair had lengthened substantially, falling in long soft waves of a burnished hue down his back while a full, immaculately groomed beard covered the lower half of his face. “To Ferelden swill, then,” he lifted his mug.

“All right,” Varric laughed, toasting him. 

He’d grown out his hair and beard. In a matter of hours. Aran narrowed his eyes, “I knew it.”

“Focus, Amatus.”

“Cheater.” Aran sipped delicately, cupping his hands around the mug. 

“The trick is to drink until you stop tasting it,” Varric encouraged.

It was soft, flat, and tasted vaguely of beans. Not a hardship to refrain from. Dorian took a sip, winced without needing to falsify his distaste, and set the mug aside. “A feat that is beyond me, it seems.”

“There’s not even a dram of whiskey?” Aran sighed wistfully, “Someone must have sack mead somewhere around here.”

“Not that I’ve been able to find. So, are you going to tell me what happened?” Varric asked as Aran worked, wincing visibly, to drain his pint, “You and Broody headed off to Seheron without inviting anyone along for the ride. Then he came back to play nesting eagle with Hawke and wouldn’t say a word about what went down up there, or where you were. Now you show up here with a Vint in tow.”

“ _Him_ in tow? Varric, he’s the one who insisted on coming down and sticking his nose into this mess. I’d have been perfectly happy to stick to fishing and reading.”

Dorian eyed Aran out of the corner of his eye. Clever man. “It’s true. Evidently, I’m suicidal.”

“No kidding, since the closest I thought this guy would be to any Vint would be sticking his knife in their… yeah. No offense,” he added.

“None taken,” Dorian returned glibly. “It seems my countrymen have not done a wonderful job ingratiating the Grand Imperium to the South. Perhaps it’s all the invasions? No, that couldn’t be it. The Blight? It’ll come to me.” As Varric laughed, he turned to Aran, “Seheron, was it?”

“...yes.”

“Very well then.” Dorian turned back to Varric, “Ours is a long and boring story.”

“It’s not boring,” Aran frowned, affronted. 

“But the short version,” Dorian continued blithely, “is that he fell in love with me at first sight and I have taken pity upon him.”

“Pity?” Aran scoffed. “You don’t have a pitying bone in your body.”

“He couldn’t help himself. I’m wonderful.”

“You’re something.” Aran tipped his mug back and drank deep. 

“Handsome. Generous. Gifted. Brilliant. He’ll bore you with my accolades some other time, I’m sure.”

“Should I tell him about your nug collection?” Aran lifted his brows. “ _D_ _avan?_ ”

“They aren’t a collection. They’re an evolutionary study; I’ve told you again and again. In any case, what I’d like to know is everything _you_ know about my adorable vagabond.” Dorian rested his bearded chin on his fist, offering Varric a wide, sparkling smile, “Spin your tales, storyteller.”

“No. No stories. Not until we deal with all the… crazy outside.” Aran rolled his eyes. “You mentioned survivors, Varric?”

Varric, who had been pleasantly following along with the back and forth, sobered and nodded. “We were shoveling through the wreckage of the Conclave, trying to figure out what happened. A few of the soldiers saw a woman stumble out of a tear near the middle, and then another woman got shoved out after her. They say there was a figure behind them in the rift who looked… Ah, nevermind.”

“Looked like Andraste?” Aran asked softly.

“Yeah…” Varric quirked a brow, “That’s right. Where’s your intel coming from?”

Aran shrugged. “I hear things.”

“Yeah, I know. The Nightingale's going to be thrilled to meet you. Between you, me, and Hawke, we’ll have a full deck of nosy ne’er-do-wells playing for the house.”

“Hawke’s here?”

“On his way. He was supposed to be here for the start of the Conclave, but shit with the nobles in Kirkwall has been tough. Extricating himself from all the debates about reconstruction took a bit longer than we thought it would. Good thing in hindsight, I guess.”

Aran only nodded, “Anything else we should know about what’s been going on here?” 

“Not much to tell yet. Most of the people here think the survivors are responsible for the sky being torn to shit. Can’t blame them for that. Not much reason for the Carta to be at the Conclave unless they were up to something. I mean, shit, they’re always up to something.”

“Can I have this?” Aran nudged Dorian’s mug with his knuckle. At his nod, he scooped the mug up and took a sip, returning his focus to the dwarf across from them, “What do you think?”

Varric shrugged. “Beyond my pay grade.” He frowned into his mug, “But fuck if I can think of any way someone could have survived that explosion. Or worse, if what they said is true, survived being _physically_ _in the Fade_. I mean, that’s supposed to be impossible, right?”

“Nothing is impossible.” Aran smiled winningly, “So when do I meet them?”

“You want to meet them. Of course you do. Conchobar of the Cliffs, lover of all weird shit,” Varric laughed, eyeing Dorian with a twinkle. “As soon as Leliana’s done with ‘em, if she lets them go, I’ll make introductions. Speaking of weird shit: there’s an elf apostate who’s been hanging around, helping figure out the Breach and this… thing that happened to the girls.”

“‘Thing’?” Dorian inquired. 

“...yeah. Not really sure what’s up with it totally, but it seems connected. Anyway, if you see him around, you can ask him. Bald guy. Surly. Goes by Solas. Your people in the Marches might find his take on things illuminating, if you’re still working for them. Are you? Still working for them?”

“I never said that I was.”

Varric tapped his nose, “ _Right_. And Cullen - remember the Templar that helped us against the Knight-Commander? He came down to fill in as Justinia’s Right Hand. Runs drills with them every day. So… there’s that you can look forward to.”

Aran lifted one thoughtful brow, glancing at Dorian, “Are we going to have trouble, do you think?”

Varric sucked his teeth, “I’m not going to lie to you. The shit had already hit the fan down here before the massacre. Now? Templars are itchy about every mage they spot, whatever their origins, and vice versa. But we need each other to get through this. The Nightingale knows that, and so does Cullen. The rest…” he shrugged. 

Dorian cleared his throat, “And Cassandra?”

Varric gave Dorian an odd look, “...the Divine’s former Right Hand scampered off when the Seekers proved themselves clowns and dumbasses. Why? You got business with her?”

“Oh. You know.” Cassandra had abandoned the Divine? That didn’t sound right. “Pentaghast. Pelidanus. Old family lines crossing eons ago. Nobility and such. Blah blah blah. Nevermind me.”

Aran kissed Dorian’s cheek fondly. “He doesn’t get out much.”

“See what happens when I do?” Dorian huffed mightily, “The sky explodes. Temples explode. Everything explodes.”

“The world,” Aran said with all the gravitas of a jester, “is a permanent shitstorm.” Dorian nearly choked when Aran followed that with: “I’d like to see it up close. The Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“It’s the Rubble of Sacred Ashes now, buddy.”

“Still,” Aran insisted.

“That’s not a great idea,” Varric hedged.

“I agree. We just got here, darling,” Dorian smiled furiously, “Let’s find somewhere to kip for the evening before venturing out to certain doom.”

They both turned to look at him. Varric nodded, “For the first and maybe last time in my life: the Vint’s right.”

“Thank you ever so.”

“Ah, let’s see… The quartermaster can set you up with a bunk or a tent. We’re crowded, but she’ll figure something out. Rest, eat, find me in the morning. I’ll probably make another trek out to keep the path clear for Hawke and I could use the backup. Alright?”

Aran nodded. “Perfect. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, Half-Glass. We’re all screwed here, no mistake. Remember the creepy red lyrium statue? The Knight-Commander? The dragon? There’s more of that red shit at that temple than I’ve ever seen in one place.” He shivered, “You can hear it if you stand too close for too long.”

“Singing?”

“Speaking.” Varric shivered, then drained his cup. “Right. Let’s get you set up with somewhere to sleep. Then I’ll go have some nightmares.”

“I thought that dwarves didn’t dream,” Dorian lifted a brow.

“We do now,” Varric muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I am deeply wounded.


	4. Chapter 4

The tent was threadbare, but they set it up in the corner of one of the small chantry’s outer gardens where the two stone walls protected them from the wind. The ale at the tavern had been watered down and was not nearly enough to help Aran escape the ache of the anchor, but the poultices Dorian had prepared earlier had done their work, at least, on their cuts. Healed, if scarred. _How many more times will I have to cut us?_ This method would not be reasonable over time. He would have to find another way. Dorian licked the tip of his quill, trying to squeeze the last bits of hard won ink they’d managed to convince the quartermaster to part with in addition to the tent. “How much ink have you left?”

“Maybe another few inches.” Aran glanced up from his own notes. “Do you need it?”

“No.” He finished his sentence and rolled up the small scroll he’d been working on. “I’m finished.”

“Just another minute.”

Dorian nodded, watching him work. His fingers itched to smooth through the shorn fuzz around Aran’s ear as he kissed the whole curve of his jaw. Half-Glass the Vagabond. A true Tethras character. He smiled to himself. He would have to ask. Perhaps when Aran was distracted. Or drunk. Was it terrible of him that he was looking forward to his tipsy Trevelyan again?

“You look pleased as a landed punch.” Aran finished the last of his messages and laid the quill to the side on a scrap of cloth beside Dorian’s. 

“I am. I’ve felt quite invigorated since we arrived. All this excitement.” Dorian nodded to the letters, “Those are for Leliana?”

“And Hawke, aye.” Aran blew on the ink to dry it, then tipped a candle to drip wax along the edges, padding the seals firmly closed. “Just what I remember about the first days. Things about the rift that Solas was hesitant to share for a while.” He shrugged. “How’s your record keeping?”

“Day one: we survived.”

Aran smirked, shifting closer and resting his head on Dorian’s shoulder. “We did.”

“This hip to hip plan of yours, though…” he shook his head, “it is already untenable.”

Aran rolled his eyes, “Eh. No one cares who we are. If that scout wants to think I’ve got a fetish, let him.”

Dorian shuddered. “There are lines one simply should not cross.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t care.”

“I care.” Dorian rested his chin atop Aran’s head. “It’s indecent.”

“Everybody poops, Dorian.”

“Do not ever speak that sentence again in my presence.”

Aran chuckled. “Fine.” He tugged at Dorian’s new growth of beard. “I miss your face.”

“Of course you do.”

“You’re quite rugged this way, though.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Very… primal.”

Dorian peered down at the man, nipping at his chill nose. “I can be.”

“I know.”

He hummed, allowing himself to wallow in the simple _want_ of those Fadestorms focused on him. It would be easy, so easy, to fall into that want. To revel in him. To lose himself in touch and taste and push the world away. He studied the tendrils of scars brushing across Aran’s cheek, up into his hairline, down his neck and disappearing into his collar. Every moment was a battle between the temptations of Dorian’s mind and his body. Unfortunately, this time, his mind won. “We seem to be relatively safe at the moment.”

“Yes,” Aran sighed contentedly.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“To what?”

“To you. So that I might be of greater assistance. We were rather rudely interrupted by demons earlier.”

Aran’s gaze slipped away, but he wrapped his arms around Dorian more tightly. “...I don’t know. Not entirely.” He spoke so low it almost hurt to hear, as though gathering the air for the words was painful. “Some… I wasn’t… I… I found myself in Minrathous without papers, without connections, in a… spot. There just wasn’t anything I could do to get out of it. So I was… purchased. In a block.”

Dorian held still, holding him, listening. He could hear the omissions, but he let them go. He’d only just begun and it was already worse than he’d imagined. He wouldn’t prolong the tale or its associated pain.

“The magister who bought us was named Pricus Danarius. He had a particular set of interests, mainly exploring the boundaries of what might be accomplished with lyrium. He… I learned later that he had a long practice of using his slaves as subjects to prove his theories. I learned this wasn’t a rare occurrence... A lot of magisters... Well. That’s what you do with property. You use it.” Aran shivered and Dorian silently gathered him closer, tightening the blanket around them. The rogue was quiet for a long time. So long, Dorian began to wonder if he’d fallen asleep. Then he spoke again, his voice distant and quiet. “It was… it's hard to explain because what I remember is… impossible. It was a fever dream. I don’t know if it was like that for the others, or if the Anchor made it more intense, or if I’m simply so loose-weave of a morning that I get… I don’t know how long I was in his control, or what precisely he did to me. There are fragments. Sometimes I dream about it and I wonder if those are memories or just… fear. He experimented with the Anchor; he didn’t know what it was, not exactly, but he wanted to. He recognized the power and that it was a connection to the Fade. He was… liberal... with his lyrium. He… poured it into the Anchor. Into me. Cup after cup after cup until I couldn’t remember how to swallow anymore. I was there, but I was in the Fade, too. I know that because I found you - a version of you - there. You… Other you… He was... oh, not pleased to see me, and I can’t blame him. I never have. Not for any… I mean, he couldn’t have known…” he shut his eyes. “By then, I was… everywhere and nowhere. I was mad. I must have been terrifying. He was protecting himself.”

“You thought that he - that I - could protect you, but instead he tried to kill you.”

Aran shivered against him, “Maybe. Or repel me. Or… so, I was there, losing my mind, reeling… And then I wasn’t. Anyway, that’s why I won’t take lyrium again. Because Danarius and all that entails. What it makes me feel... remember... Now you know.” He lifted his face, searched Dorian’s expression. “What are you thinking?”

Dorian felt as though his mind were on fire. What was he thinking? What _wasn’t_ he thinking? Possibilities poured through his mind’s eye in chalkstrokes and ink. This Danarius had sent a mundane into the Fade, split his consciousness from his body by force, without blood magic? It couldn’t be. It had to have been… ah, but Cole had known that, too. He’d said as much. Did Aran realize it, or only see the similarities in ritual without the root? The powerlessness and fear and chaos... Tender, wary Fadestorms swirled a hair’s breadth from his own, anxious. It felt like looking into the sun, he’d said. Chock full of Fade, he’d said. A realization began to dawn. Was it possible?

“You’re working,” Aran marveled, shocked.

Dorian blinked rapidly, shame flooding him. “No-“

“You are.” Aran swallowed, still searching, “Well?”

“I’m sorry.” The guttural, whispered words were not enough, not nearly enough, not for any of it. There were no words. Tevinter after Tevinter after Tevinter had tortured this man that he loved. His countrymen. His country. And he couldn’t so much as summon words to Aran’s aid. 

“Yeah.” Aran exhaled a shaky breath. “Well. Water under the bridge.”

“No.”

“It’s fine.”

“No.”

Aran sat up, looking away. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow. We should probably-“

“I’m grateful that you told me. It can’t have been easy.”

He paused, frowning. “It’s okay.”

“It isn’t. None of this- I cannot begin to- All these people - _my_ people - vishante kaffas, _what I’ve…_ It’s monstrous what you suffered… What they’ve done… I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if there is anything I _can_ say that would be of any use. What I am inclined to express is that you are… magnificent.”

“No, I’m not.”

“All that I know of you, every moment, you have been magnificent. I can admit that I haven’t always recognized it. Oh, I knew you were clever right away; difficult to hide that. And I could see that you were kind, though I didn’t know then exactly what kindness was capable of. But the rest… your insight, your character, your strength, your infernal puzzling… Those took longer to recognize, but they are diaphanous in hindsight. You speak as though your resilience - your will and survival - is as mundane as breathing, but that isn’t the case. You must know that it isn’t.”

“I didn’t _do_ anything.”

“You lived through that.”

“That was luck, or...” Aran frowned, trailing off to stare at the tent’s wall.

Dorian watched his gears turn. Thoughts. Doubts. Memories he might never reach. “You told me that Mythal saved you from a vulnerable state. Was it from Danarius?”

The answer was in Aran’s eyes. Miserable and relieved and frustrated. “For a long time, I believed Mythal had rescued me. Divine interference. I still _feel_ that, you know, even though... I mean, I was sure that I was dying, was going to die, split between that table and the Fade. I felt myself go… and then I woke up in a temple, surrounded by the sentinels, with the voices of her priests inside of me, guiding me back from the monster that I’d escaped. The monster I had been. I didn’t know who I was or where I’d come from. I only knew what the sentinels knew: I’d appeared in their temple, absorbed the thousand tears of the Mother’s acolytes, and I was theirs. I was in bad shape; Abelas told me that I’d been flayed.” He touched his shoulder, his tone distant, starkly objective, as though he were recounting something that had happened to someone else. “He said there were pieces… just… folded away. Physically, it took a long time to… do everything again. We had to teach my muscles to work again. I had to learn to _be_ again.” 

Dorian thought of the days and nights he’d spent tracing the outlines of those scars since Aran had returned. Wondering. And, even in the midst of horror and heartbreak, he was still studiously analyzing the magic. The _magic_. Recreating those remembered patterns in his mind’s eye with the new information of their creation. From the heart to the mind. Down the arm to the Anchor. Lyrium pathways following the veins and paths of power. _Flayed._ The word reverberated in Dorian’s mind. _Flayed._ Pieces… pieces of Aran. _Folded away._ Why? For what purpose? But, of course, the answer was as obvious as the subtle gleam of blue and silver in his scars. Not just flayed, but _filled_. Lyrium poured into him. Directly. Maker have mercy.

Aran was quiet, remembering, softening, “Time was meaningless there. It was just… peace. The Anchor didn’t even flicker.” He hummed, “They called me _Eolas'esayelan, Hale, Mythal’enaste._ Favored by Mythal’s blessing.”

”Mythal’s Herald, perhaps?” Dorian inquired.

Aran laughed hollowly. “Aye. Perhaps. Her apprentice. Her fox. Her forerunner. Whatever the names were... It was a good life. A strange one, waiting for a sign from a lost goddess. But it was simple. Calm. Quiet. There were mosaics and puzzles and relics; I was happy there. Ignorant, but happy. It was all that I knew. Then She spoke through me, or something did. And I was off again. After that, I started to remember. To piece… me - not Hale, but Aran - back together. And that was like learning to move again, just… inside. I hadn’t really thought about… well… anything. I didn’t know I was different until I remembered how I had been.” Aran sighed, “I know, logically, that it was probably happenstance. That it’s all random. That I went there after… that I left after She…”

‘Patchwork, pulled apart’, Cole had said. Literally. Yet there he was, mended as best he could manage. Watching. Waiting. “It sounds like a rescue to me as well.”

“No, I don’t know, I don’t… it doesn’t make sense.”

“Just as Andraste saving you from the Fade doesn’t make sense to you?”

“She didn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, though. That’s what I keep trying to tell you. When- I went into the Fade again, with Neriel, when we were trying the save the Wardens at Adamant the first time. I spoke to a spirit and she showed me what I’d forgotten. It wasn’t Andraste.”

Dorian absorbed this with a slow blink. “Pardon me.” He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly.

“Dorian?”

“I’m attempting not to scream. Or gibber. Please don’t interrupt.” Dorian flexed his fingers on Aran, reminding himself that he was there and solid and whole. He concentrated on feeling the ground beneath him and the cold of the air warming in his throat as he breathed. The Aran they’d left behind in the care of Solas and Birashi, eaten alive by the ‘storm’. Raw power from the Fade must be bleeding into him, through the Anchor. Moment by moment. Steadily trickling through. Did it affect his movement through time, or run parallel? Could it be removed? Released, as steadily as it entered him, preventing him from overfilling? Released. Ah, of course. Little wonder he’d felt so energized since they’d arrived here. Not adrenaline. _Maleficarum._ His heart was racing. He’d cast blood magic with a man so infused with lyrium and raw power that he was a literal pathway through the Veil. A living eluvian. “Do I want to know how many times you have gadded about corporeally in the Fade?” he asked weakly. 

“Just the twice.” He paused. “I think.”

“You think.”

Aran bit his lip, “I can’t remember.”

“I can imagine that’s exceedingly frustrating. Especially for you.” He frowned, “So you had a little chat, did you?”

”Yes, and it wasn’t Andraste. It was the Divine. Or... some version of the Divine. Her memory, mayhap. Her will?”

”And has it occurred to you that the spirit you spoke to in the Fade might have been lying?”

“For what reason? She was trying to help us.”

“You _think_. You don’t know.”

“I know she guided us out of the Fade.”

“Did it? Or did it make it appear as though it did? For all your extraordinary qualities, you are not a mage-“

“Neriel is.”

“ _N_ _eriel_ is _Dalish_ ,” Dorian reminded him with a lifted brow, looking precisely as pedantic as he sounded in that instant. “And while the Dalish have their own particular brand of magic that is fascinating and quaint, I’m sure-“

“‘Quaint’?” Aran balked.

“-they are, by no means, mages in the sense of _training._ ”

“They’ve more experience with spirits than most-“

“Than most mages _in the South,_ ” Dorian corrected him. “The Imperium is rife with spirits, on both sides of the Veil, and we have entire colleges devoted to their study exclusively. As your dear friend the Archon should have informed you, if no one else.”

Aran scowled at him. “You’re doing the Tevinter Magister thing.”

”What’s that?”

”Being a really patronizing dickhead.”

“Does it sound that way? I am sorry; it isn’t my intention to condescend,” he frowned, frustrated. “I am not criticizing you, Amatus, or Neriel, for that matter. I am only reminding you that you cannot base your belief about what role Andraste may or may not have played in your survival at the Conclave on the word of a spirit. If the spirit was not lying, it could well have simply been mistaken. Andraste’s intentions are between you and Her, as it is between you and Mythal what role She may have played in your departure from Castellum Tenebris, and only you will be able to divine the truth of the matter. Pardon the expression.” 

Aran wrinkled his nose. “Well, I have.”

“No, Amatus. You haven’t. I know your ‘decided’ expression. This isn’t it.”

“What- no- I have.”

“And now you’re simply being argumentative.”

“And you’re being snooty.”

Dorian blinked, his lips twitching in amusement, “Just consider it. That is all I ask.” He sighed, “And, Aran, I think… I think you should avoid returning to the Fade in the future.”

“No kidding.”

“Physically, I mean. I know you can’t help dreaming.” Dorian bowed his head, thinking. Unless there was a means by which they could curtail that as well. That might be best. Anything to keep him safe. If only he knew... No. Aran had been through enough today. News of his demise by Fadestorm could wait. 

“Dorian.”

“Yes?”

“You don’t need to give a speech. I get it. I _am_ actively trying to avoid it.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Dorian twined his fingers with Aran’s, “...I find the problems that you face daunting and frustrating. I like being able to solve things at the snap of a finger. I can’t solve any of this for you in that way.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“I know that you don’t, but I wish that I could.”

Aran bit the inside of his lip, tilting his head to the side. “I know.”

So easy, so easy to fall into him. So easy to tap the well of endless, inexhaustible power that flowed within him. Now that Dorian knew what it was, he could _taste_ it. The subtle hum that had been singing in his veins since they’d arrived. The faint notes of earth and ozone at the back of his throat. _Monster,_ he screamed inside of his head. Aloud, he whispered: “I am so terribly fond of you.”

“So I hear.” 

“If, or when, you want to talk about it again. Any of this. Or anything else. You’ve only to let me know.”

“Thank you.”

“As magic exists to serve man, it is my honor and privilege to serve you.”

Aran snorted softly, curled against Dorian’s side again, tangling them together as Dorian secured the blanket and fur around them to ward off the cold. “Don’t be an ass, _chuisle mo chroí._ ”

“I’m not,” Dorian insisted. “I never want you to be hurt or used or muddled with again.”

“I know.”

“Everything in my power. I will do everything in my power to prevent that.” _Because you are in danger, Amatus,_ he thought, fear lodging behind his heart. _From me, as well._

“I know. Let’s not make a thing of it, okay.”

Dorian subsided, eyeing his snowcap of hair, finally cut in a way that suited his fine jaw and crooked nose. He looked like a fragile relic, ancient and powerful. “...Aran?”

“Hm?”

“I-” No. Not now. ”I’ll take the wards down, shall I?”

“Aye.” 

“It’s going to be alright,” he murmured, feeling Aran’s arms tighten around him. “We have each other. We’ll make it through this.”

“Gods above and below,” Aran whispered, none the wiser. “I hope you’re right.”


	5. sweat and starlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit m/m in a moment of midnight quit. If not your cup of tea, skip to the next chapter. :) Thanks for reading!

Aran roused slowly, rising through layers of awareness like fog. Dorian was a warm, solid weight against his back, their legs tangled together within the tight confines of the blanket wrapped around the both of them. His breath lightly ruffled the hairs at the back of Aran’s neck on uneven exhales in the frigid midnight air. 

Dorian. 

Here.

In this time.

In this world of horrifying red lyrium monsters and unpredictable friends.

With him.

The Breach and the Anchor had given him a fitful sleep, but the mage’s presence at his back lured him again and again into temporary rest. Bouts of sleep full of dreams of the man beside him. 

Now he was so hard he ached. He caught his tongue between his teeth, unlacing his trousers to stroke his shaft. Better. He breathed in Dorian’s rich scent on the chill of the night air, stifling his sighs as best he could manage.

“Hmm?” The mage purred, half in his sleep. His eyes opened to lazy slits in the dim of the tent. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.” He moaned as Dorian pulled him back flush to his hips, his hand slipping down to cup his balls.

“Keep going.”

Aran shifted his thighs apart, his hips moving of their own accord as he continued stroking himself. Dorian’s fingers were warm as they lifted and gently tugged his sack, tucking beneath to massage his taint. 

He twisted in the embrace, turning to capture the other man’s mouth with his own as he wriggled back against him. With him. Outside, Haven was restless, but quiet. Not far, there was the crackling of the fire and the tread of boots of a soldier making his midnight rounds. “Fuck me?” Aran whispered.

In answer, Dorian tugged the back of his pants down. Aran heard his erudite lover suck his fingers, spit, and then felt those graceful digits prod at him. 

“Ah- yes-“

Dorian tugged at his sack and then returned to firmly stroking his taint as he fingered him, “Tell me when it’s enough.”

“Enough,” Aran whined quietly, rocking between Dorian’s hands.

“When it’s  _ actually _ enough,” Dorian clarified in a puff of warm humor against his lips. “Greedy guts.” He kissed him, like taking sips from a fine wine, tasting. 

Aran moaned into each slip of tongue and twist of fingers. He stroked himself firmly, collecting the sticky proof of his pleasure on his fingers. Dorian was thoroughly plowing him with two fingers, making his eyes cross with every firm stroke of his thumb against his perineum. “Now,” he hissed, plaintive. He had to muffle his groan with his own fist as he felt Dorian tap the firm, precum-soaked tip of his cock against his prepared entrance. He heard Dorian spit, stroke, spit again, and then… glorious steady invading pressure. “Yes-“

“Shh,” Dorian nipped gently at the back of his neck. 

Aran tipped forward, lifting his ass to meet Dorian’s increasingly vigorous thrusts, shuddering as waves of pleasure lapped deeper. Stronger. More. 

“You feel so good,” Dorian murmured against his ear.

“Yes-“

“You always feel so good.”

“Yes- yes-“ Aran twisted again to kiss, taste, suck that slick, complimentary tongue as he was driven by cock, tongue, and fingers into mindless ecstasy.


	6. Chapter 6

Aran woke to the scent of bean and nug stew cooking over campfires. 

“Good morning.”

He rubbed a hand over his face lazily, rolling to find Dorian already dressed, scratching notes with a shard of coal onto parchment. Their gear was packed and ready; Aran’s equipment laid out in an orderly fashion. “And you.”

“How did you sleep?”

Aran shifted his hips, chuckling, lacing his trousers inside the warm cocoon of the blanket. “Is that a trick question?”

Dorian smirked slightly, “You seemed restless, earlier in the night.”

“I was. Then I wasn’t.”

“Good.” Dorian nodded, absently tapping his fingers on the side of his pack. “Good.”

“You?”

“Hm? Oh, fine. Well enough.” 

Aran squinted at him. “Something on your mind?”

“Yes,” he said as though he’d been impatiently waiting for just that question. “A dozen somethings, but firstly, and most importantly: why are we here?”

“Sorry?”

“Are we here as part of a plan, divine or otherwise, in which case: are there specific tasks we should be enacting that would move us to our next location? Or are we here meddling in things entirely out of our purview, in which case: shouldn’t we leave all of it well enough alone?”

Aran shut his eyes, muffling a yawn, “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough.” Dorian shifted closer, kneeling beside him. “Or- Aran, are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” he sighed.

“Or are we here because you were drawn here intrinsically for some other reason? Perhaps because there are things here that might help us to get home.”

“Like what?”

“Alexius.”

“Huh?”

“If events unfold the same way here as they did in our world, he may be in Redcliffe now. Or he will be soon. We could go there and steal his amulet, then I could attempt to reconfigure it’s runes to transport us back. Or, at the very least, make a more leisurely study of the thing to glean some deeper insight into what exactly he’s done to you. And if he isn’t there or on his way, we could find him in Tevinter. Perhaps stop him from joining the Venatori at all.”

Aran reeled his gear under the blanket and pulled on the carefully prepared layers while attempting not to lose all of his accrued heat. “Food first.”

Dorian huffed, “I suppose, if we must.”

“I must.” Aran said as his stomach rumbled in agreement, buckling his coat on and looking around for his boots. “I don’t know about you.”

“But what do you think?”

“I think I just woke up.”

“I mean about how exactly this spell works. You must have a theory.”

“Your wards… did you...?”

“Yes, of course. Use your eyes.” Dorian pointed to the soft blue light emanating from the base of the tent walls. “I revived them this morning.”

Aran sighed, relenting, “I _do_ have theories. Sometimes. And then something random throws them out the window and I’m left back at ‘who the hell knows’. Thank you,” he added as Dorian nudged his boots out from under the blanket.

The mage inclined his head graciously, continuing, “Random how?” 

“Places I’ve never been. Places I don’t recognize. People who aren’t connected to any of this, or no people at all.” He tugged on his boots. 

“ _Seemingly_ extraneous data, yes, I’ve come across that myself, but that is only because we lack context. A clear view. A purpose. Amatus, I’ve been thinking-“

“Have you now?”

“Yes. I think that it would be unwise for us to go to the Temple, today or at all.”

“I have to. The Breach has to be sealed.”

“Yes, of course it does, but not by you. You heard Varric. They have their own key to that lock. Two, for all we know.” 

“...I know that.”

“Intellectually, you may, but you aren’t acting like it.” Dorian rested a hand over Aran’s. “This isn’t your fight.”

“It’s all of our fights.”

“No. It isn’t. Our fight is at home, _our_ home. They need us there. They don’t have a spare or two of you knocking around like this world does. Our rifts need closing. Our Elder God needs killing. Our Varric is worried. Our _Cole_ is _frightened_ , Aran; he needs us.” 

Aran worried his lip. “Don’t you think I know all that?”

“Then why bother with the concerns of this Inquisition at all? Stick to our own. There are clues here, perhaps, that we can-“

“It’s what I know, Dorian.”

“I understand that it’s been difficult.”

“Aye,” Aran rolled his eyes. “‘Difficult’. There's that sympathy you’re famous for.”

“Only the pitiful require pity. You are bright and strong and infernally lovely. You’ve been flung from place to place, looking for something familiar, I know, but now you _have_ that. You have me. We can-“ he paused, feeling as though he were stumbling, despite kneeling. “Are we going?” He unsheathed Aran’s blade and pressed his palm against the edge as Aran shook his head.

“No, why?”

“Something is… something is… tugging? Pulling?” He hissed, feeling the unsteady sensation rip and rend, turning everything topsy-turvy. Then a glowing blue claw pushed through the tent and tore the flap wide. And off.

Aran caught Dorian as he collapsed against him, shouting, “Fenris, for fuck’s sake!” as the world went black.

* * *

Dorian jerked to consciousness with the vile sting of lyrium on his tongue, Aran inches from his face, thumb smoothing the side of his head. “What in the Void-“ Dorian breathed.

“I have already apologized,” a deep voice grumbled nearby. “I will not do so again.” 

“Doaty bampot,” Aran grunted, his tone at odds with the gentleness of his touch and expression as he searched Dorian’s eyes. “Hey.”

“Ow,” Dorian winced.

“Yeah… So, interesting news, you’ve found someone who can tear down your wards. Congratulations?”

“That _hurt_! Don’t congratulate me.”

“You like learning new things. This is a new thing.”

“I _passed out_! It was like having the world torn out from under me. I’ve had enough new experiences in the past day, thank you.” Dorian swatted at Aran’s hand, “You know I detest that concoction.”

“Well, you were unconscious.”

“I’m quite aware.” Dorian sniffed, “Thank you for reviving me. Now put it away.”

“Can do.” Aran kissed his nose and capped the bottle. 

“He certainly whines as much as every other magister we’ve met,” the voice curled into Dorian’s ear sinuously, hints of a Tevene accent hidden in gravel. 

Following the sound, he turned to find a pair of piercing blue eyes. Piercing, because they were sharp, cold, and narrowed suspiciously. The elf was as ivory-headed as Aran, the silver blue scars on his face so similar in color and consistency to Aran’s own scars that it was eerie, though the pattern was entirely different. Thicker lines, less organic.

“Dor-“ Aran huffed, kissing him as he nearly slipped. “ _Davan_ ,” he began again, “this is my dear friend Fenris, who did apologize while you were unconscious. He felt the resonance of your spell and was concerned about the Tevene flavor of it. Because Varric thought it would be _funny_ to _surprise_ him with that,” Aran added with a darting glare.

“I didn’t expect him to rip the tent apart,” the dwarf rocked back on his heels.

“Idiot,” Aran and Fenris both muttered in sync.

“Good lord, don’t you two make a pair,” Dorian murmured. He was rewarded by two sets of narrowed eyes snapping to him as one. “I may vomit, just so you know.”

“Yes,” Fenris turned to Aran with a sneer, “one of the ‘good ones’, I’m sure. Come back to me when he politely asks you for a vial of your blood.”

Dorian frowned. Not that it wasn’t a good idea, considering their situation, but the judgement still irked him. “I-“

“Don’t bother lying,” the elf huffed condescendingly, “I know your kind.”

“Yes, you and everyone else. I adore the South to little pieces.”

Aran took a knee next to him, “Can I get you something? A bucket? Water?”

“You can stay right here.”

The rogue sighed, “Right.” He smoothed Dorian’s hair back from his forehead, kissing his hairline. 

“Charming friends,” Dorian muttered under his breath.

“They grow on you.”

“Like a fungus, one presumes?”

“Interesting point! There’s been some fascinating research out of the University of Orlais that hypothesizes that fungi are actually responsible for the creation of arable soil. There was a whole study on areas of the Nahasin Marshes that were shown in records several hundred years ago to be desert, but now are lush-“

Dorian lifted a brow. 

“...what I mean to say is: fungi are terribly useful?” A hopeful non-question, followed by a bashful, “Even when it seems otherwise?” 

“They are, indeed,” Dorian kissed his fingers. “Forgive me.”

Varric grinned, “Well, it sounds like you’re feeling more or less conscious again. You’ll both be pleased to hear that we’ve been granted an audience.” 

“An audience?” Aran glanced up, “With who?”

The dwarf winked, “Come and find out.”

Aran focused on Dorian, “ _Are_ you okay?”

“I haven’t had a drawn ward broken since I was thirteen.”

Aran watched him, concerned.

Dorian waved him off. “Yes. I’m fine. Or will be.” He sniffed, eyeing the elf. “How exactly did you manage it?”

Fenris smiled, the expression sharp. “Create a barrier like that again, and you’ll find out.”

“Fenris,” Aran growled. “Away an’ boil your bloody head; I’ve told you, he’s with me.”

“We all know that you’re a trusting fool.”

“Do you?” Aran glanced between them, brows knitting. “Am I?”

“This is my fault and I should have known better.” Varric cleared his throat, “Fenris, Hawke should be getting here some time today. Could you… I don’t know… go look for him? Or something? We’ve got somewhere to be and I don’t want to keep these people waiting.”

Fenris peered down his nose, then rolled his eyes. “Go then. I will be nearby.”

They watched him stride off, stepping out of the ruined tent and following Varric. “Sorry,” Varric sighed, holding out a couple of campfire skillet buns to them. “I really thought he’d relaxed a bit since coming back from Seheron. I kicked the hornet's nest on this one.”

“I don’t know,” Dorian murmured. “He seems a delight. A real cheerful fellow.”

“He’s got his reasons,” Aran frowned, tearing into the bread with his teeth.

“Another survivor of Pricus Danarius, I presume.” Dorian tapped his chin when Aran looked surprised, “Distinctive. Very like to your own.”

Aran shared a glance with him, nodding slightly, his breath catching as Dorian’s arm draped around his shoulders. “He’s dead now.”

“Good.” Dorian kissed the top of his head, “I appreciate that he's so protective of you.”

“He’s protective of everyone. He’s a good man. And so are you,” Aran looked up at him, “I want him to see that.”

“A lot to ask, after what you both have been through. Let him be.” 

“But-“

“I am hardly thin-skinned. Worry not.”

“Here we are.” Varric knocked on the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. “I’ll have a talk with Fenris. Don't worry about it for now.”

Aran bit his lip, eyeing the dwarf and the door, glancing to the left to another dark portal. Memories flitted behind his eyes. 

Dorian offered him a fleeting smile. “So we return to prologue,” he murmured, drawing a nervous chuckle from the rogue as the door opened before them.


	7. Chapter 7

Even the table was the same. Dorian couldn’t stop staring at it. The old, scarred wood. The map spread wide, pinned by daggers into place. Little wonder Aran confused so many of his disparate realities. How many tiny details could be _identical_ between them? The people, the places… again and again, returning to the same familiar sights and sounds. Fascinating. Maddening. 

He glanced back as Varric closed the door. Before them, arrayed around the table were Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen. Here were some relatively small, yet significant differences. A deep scar, jagged and crooked, down the right side of the commander’s handsome features. A lightness in the spymaster’s expression above her voluminous Chantry robes of white and gold. A sobriety to the ambassador's gown, a pair of small lenses perched at the end of her nose. And somewhat larger differences: in addition to the council he was familiar with, and Varric, there were two Templars, three cowled priests, and an elderly mage, all packed tightly into the relatively small space. Dorian had never seen so many people in the room at once before.

“Ah… hello?” Aran greeted the group with a small wave. He was wearing his practiced ‘I definitely don’t recognize any of you’ expression; it seemed to improve every time, which was impressive considering it was all Dorian could do not to stare and catalogue the little disjointed differences in those he was familiar with.

Varric cleared his throat, “Ah… so! Conchobar of the Cliffs and Davan Pelidanus of Tevinter, meet Sister Leliana and the leadership of the Inquisition.”

“Thank you for joining us so early,” Leliana tucked her hands into the lengthy bell sleeves of her robe. 

“Sure. Yeah. All hands on deck, right?” 

Dorian shifted closer to Aran’s side as the spymaster regarded them quietly. It wasn’t a malevolent expression. He couldn’t place exactly what made him nervous. But he was. 

“...I’m not sure what we can do to help,” Aran spoke into the quiet. “We just got here. But any friend of Varric’s…” He knew something was off, too. He was trying to think his way out. Dorian could see him working through moves and exits and words; if Dorian could see it, he knew Leliana could as well. 

“That’s what we said,” Leliana agreed simply. “Any friend of Varric’s. And of the Champion of Kirkwall. Yes?” She nodded and Josephine placed a book on the table. “Do you recognize this?”

Aran glanced at the book, brows quirking. The Tale of the Champion, leather bound. “Ah… a novel?” He glanced at Varric, “What’s going on?”

“Just answer the questions, Half-Glass.” Varric nodded encouragingly. “It’s okay.”

“I _am,_ but...” Aran cleared his throat. “Is there a problem?”

Josephine opened the book, flicked through the pages to somewhere near the middle, and placed it open before him. “If you could read here, messere?”

Aran squinted at the paragraph, then looked up. “I don’t…” He looked back down, frowning as he read. “Well, that’s just not true.”

“No?” Leliana inquired.

“‘As the grim warrior set his sword ablaze, the short rogue to his side backed up nervously.’” Aran frowned at Varric, “Nervously? I was looking for tactical advantages. Also: short? _I’m_ short? You can’t even see yourself in a bureau mirror.”

“We were more curious about the part where, in the midst of the following battle, you were there… and then suddenly not.”

“That’s not how I…” Aran’s jaw tightened for a moment. “...alright. Maybe I was nervous, after all.”

Leliana glanced at the mage who took a step forward. She felt ancient to Dorian, although she wasn’t _that_ old. White and gray hair swept into a regal bun at the back of her head, her eyes steady and blue. She seemed to lean just a little too much on her staff and moved just a hint too slowly, yet there was steel in her and no small measure of experience. That much was evident. “Conchobar, is it? Do you know me?” she asked quietly.

Aran glanced at Dorian, then back at her. “...am I supposed to?” he asked.

She closed her eyes, murmuring, “What are we to you, I wonder? It’s never clear.” She refocused, her gaze exacting and calm, “You are safe here. You are among friends.”

“...all right…” Aran shifted closer to Dorian, sounding very skeptical indeed.

“We would very much appreciate your help, old friend. And we want to be certain that you are in good hands.”

“Uh huh...”

The mage folded her hands in front of her. “My name,” she bowed her head formally, “is Wynne. Some time ago, you saved my son and my daughter in law at the White Spire in Val Royeaux. You were looking for a friend of yours at the time: a young man who goes by the name of Cole. Do you recall any of this?”

Aran blinked, glancing at Dorian and biting his lip.

“I can see that you do. So now we have established that you _do_ know me, as I know you. I have not forgotten. _We_ have not forgotten. We have learned, in fact, _not_ to forget.” She said this as though it were meant to be a comforting assurance, though Aran’s tension at Dorian’s side didn’t scream comfort. She looked at Dorian as he circled Aran’s shoulders with his arm. “Magister Pelidanus,” she said, some of the softness leaving her tone. “Ambassador Tethras seems to think that you are not a threat. He believes - based on remarkably little evidence, in my opinion - that you have this young man’s best interests in mind. I admit that this is not an easy thing for _me_ to believe, given what we know of Tevinter’s manipulation of spirits not to mention the many substantive rumors of blood magic, but,” she lifted her chin, “Sister Leliana believes him and so I must take your word, if you give it. Is he free to make his own choices?”

Dorian stared. “What? Him?” he pointed at Aran, perplexed.

“She thinks I’m a spirit,” Aran muttered dully.

“Maker,” Dorian laughed despite himself. “What a silly- _Yes_ , he’s entirely his own. Stubborn as a mule. And not…” he trailed off. It wasn’t an unreasonable supposition. Aran did smack of the Fade. Disappearing and reappearing. Knowing too much sometimes and too little others. “I understand the root of your error, but he is very much a person.”

“Yes,” Wynne nodded. “Of course he is a person. I would not dream of suggesting otherwise.”

“I should have been more clear. I know better and I apologize. A _human_ person,” Dorian detailed. “Born to other human people. Not from dreams or wishes or will or imagining, but from good, hot, sweaty, messy sex between a male human and a female human. At least, one hopes it was good.” 

Aran gagged slightly, wincing. “Thanks for that.”

“No trouble at all. Not that they’ll take my word for it.”

“I believe that is what he believes,” Wynne soothed. “Just as Cole did, until we were able to prove that definitively untrue.” She shook her head, “In any case, what matters at this moment is only whether or not he is free to choose for himself. Or whether there is a binding in place. If there is,” she continued seriously, “I would ask that you remove it rather than forcing us to do so.” To their sides, the Templars shifted their grips on their swords.

“Don’t. Threaten. Him.” Aran stepped into front of Dorian, eyes narrowing.

“You should know better, First Enchanter,” a woman’s voice echoed from beneath one of the Templar helms. 

Wynne’s smile tightened a bit nervously. “It is not a threat, dear. It is a request. Albeit a firm request. For your well-being.”

“You let me worry about me. I’m not a spirit. And I’m not bound in any way, so there’s nothing for him to remove. I am, if anything, too loosely connected to everything.”

The mage sighed, turning away. She walked to the bookshelf at the back of the room and returned with a book in her hands, its pages pierced through with a dagger. The book was small, fitting snugly in the palm of her hand. Gold and gleaming in the torchlight, but for the dull rusty spatter that still clung to its gilded binding. “Do you remember this?”

“It’s the Litany of Adralla, but-“ Aran’s shoulders inched up closer to his ears, his cheeks burning. “I stopped the Lord Seeker from reading it because it was hurting _Cole_ , not _me._ For fuck’s sake.” 

“If that is true, then how do you explain this?” Leliana asked, nodding to the novel. “How do you explain these?” The Nightingale opened a box on the table, filled with scraps of paper and letters and tiny scrolls, all in Aran’s tidy hand. “Hawke and I have had a very interesting discourse about what you know and what you’ve shared. We’ve both received letters in your hand. The same hand that wrote this list,” she held out the small scrap of paper that he’d scrawled ingredients on and given to the town’s apothecary the night before. “Dragonthorn and prophet’s laurel? Those are both used in rituals for summoning spirits and stabilizing such summons.” 

“I-“ Aran huffed helplessly. “What is this? An intervention?” He crossed his eyes, “Bloody Adan. Bloody Seth. Listen. I wish I could help you to understand, but there just isn’t an explanation that I can give you that you’ll believe.”

“He’s a time traveler.” 

Aran turned to gape at Dorian, horrified.

“As am I,” Dorian lifted his brows. “We might as well let them disbelieve the truth, Amatus. They are your friends, after all.” 


	8. Chapter 8

“A time traveler,” Wynne repeated, dubious.

“Well,” Dorian temporized, “when I say ‘time traveler’ what I really mean is ‘bespelled to travel through various parallel realities in a non-linear fashion which sometimes, but not exclusively, results in multiple periods of time within the same reality’.”

“That is a _great_ story,” Varric cackled. “Gotta say, it makes a certain kind of sense. Better than what I’d come up with. Way better than the spirit bullshit.”

“It makes no sense at all,” the enchanter countered. “Time magic is a myth. It has never been successfully cast without tearing the caster asunder.”

“It may well have done just that,” Dorian told her helpfully. “We are the unfortunate recipients of the spell, not the casters. So far as I know, the people responsible for the spell’s inception are dead. Had I had a hand in it, I assure you, it would have been far more stable, not to mention effective. I’m fairly certain it was supposed to remove him entirely, not merely displace him.”

“And - what do you mean by ‘parallel realities’? You speak of the Fade.”

“In fact, no. I would direct you to the works of Leonides Deodatus and Hieronymus Wittinfield the Second. They have a series of very concisely written theorems about the nature of time, and indeed reality, as something akin to a ball of twine…”

“Preposterous.”

“I assure you, from experience, it is not.”

Aran was making a face like a fish out of water. “What. Is. _Wrong_. With you?!” he hissed, punching Dorian in the arm.

“Ow! Stop it!”

“How long have I been doing this?” he growled. “You can’t keep a secret for a single day?!”

“I’ll remind you I _did_ keep it for a day.”

“How in the seven hells did you survive Tevinter?! And you say _I_ can’t tell a lie? You’re the _worst!_ The absolute worst!”

Dorian grappled Aran’s fists, “Calm down.”

“I will _not_ calm down! Why must you always know better than everyone else?”

“It’s a hardship I’ve always had to live with,” Dorian sighed, laughing as Aran’s fists went back to trying to pummel him. “What is the problem exactly? They want to protect you. They even want to protect you _from me_ , which is ludicrous for any number of reasons, but does prove that they are your friends. You tend to inspire the ludicrous. And they’ve clearly got mages working with them - reasonably capable ones, even. What is wrong with asking for help? The more people we have helping us break this spell, the better.”

“You and your fucking colleges! Magic doesn’t solve everything!”

“It _can_ , if given half a chance,” Dorian gathered Aran’s fists together, pinning them to his chest. “Simmer down, my love; you’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

Aran half-growled, half-yelled in his face. “Don’t! _Don’t_ say that when I’m angry at you.” He made an annoyed shout in the back of his throat, shutting his eyes.

“Better?” Dorian asked archly.

“You’re infuriating!”

“Yes, so are you. That’s why we get along so well.” Dorian squeezed his hands. “Deep breaths now.”

Aran angrily sucked in a deep breath, glaring at him, his cheeks flushed a dark, furious red.

“And out.”

Aran hissed out a long, seething breath. 

“There we are.” 

A quiet sound interrupted the men, drawing their attention back to the others in the room. Leliana had her fingers pressed to her lips, suppressing a laugh that sounded as soft and bell-like as a child’s giggle but seemed to shake her entire body like an earthquake. “Oh, it’s just... The world is _wondrous,_ is it not? Golems, living spirits, now time magic?” She smiled, giddy, spreading her fingers on the table, “And as we no longer need to be concerned for your welfare in terms of binding or enslavement… What does everyone think?” She glanced at the others in the room.

“I would like a name,” Cullen said, narrowing his eyes, “A real one. Not one made up from fairy stories.”

“Conchobar _is_ a real name,” Aran gritted. Dorian pressed his lips together. “Stop it. I can see you smirking.”

“I am doing nothing of the kind. I’m only relieved to no longer be perceived as your captor.”

He slanted a dark look at the too beautiful man at his side. “My name is Aran _Conchobar_ Trevelyan.” The others looked at one another; Josephine’s pen scratching on parchment the only sound for a few moments. “Not a real name,” Aran muttered under his breath.

“Of the… Ostwick Trevelyans?” Josephine inquired curiously.

Aran’s jaw tightened and Dorian could see the swears swirling behind his eyes. “Distantly,” he hurried to say. “Very, _very_ distantly. So distantly as to not be at all.”

“But you are from Ostwick, yes? Do you perhaps know your lineage? I could-“

“No,” Aran scowled, which did not by any means put an end to the line of questioning. Dorian could see that much in Josephine’s alert gaze. But she quieted, at least for the time being.

“...Well?” Leliana asked the room at large. 

“I vote ‘Aye’,” Varric saluted her. “And I want credit for my ear for dialects, because I called that wasn’t a Starkhaven brogue.”

Wynne sighed, stepping to the side. “There are still a great many answers I require, but given what has been made possible, it is difficult to reason against it.”

Cullen nodded curtly, nudging Josephine, who looked up from her notes a bit flustered, “Yes, of course, very well. But there are elements about which I would also ask for clarification.”

One of the priests stepped forward, whispering in Leliana’s ear for a moment. “Ah, of course. Magister Pelidanus,” Leliana turned her warm gaze to him. 

“Davan, please,” Dorian bowed his head regally. “I let it go before, but technically I’m not a Magister. Enchanter, if you insist on titles, or Lord, or ‘your Magnificence’...” 

“Davan, then. This is a delicate moment in the history of Thedas, as you are aware. We have gathered intelligence from various first and third hand sources of Con- Aran’s leanings in this charged climate. Are you of an accord with his opinions?”

Dorian watched her intently for a moment. “Not _all_ of them. I mean, have you heard what he does when left to dress himself?” Aran rolled his eyes, but Dorian spotted the wry twitch of his lips. Not quite a smile, but so very close. “Did you have something specific in mind?”

“The Black Divine?”

“Atrocious.”

“You think so?” a crotchety, familiar voice from beneath one of the cowls piped up. “And what do you think of Divine Justinia the fifth? Was she ‘atrocious’ as well?” 

“Brother Roderick! Is that you? Hiding your face? How terribly Orlesian of you.” Dorian smiled. “Gracious me. The gang’s all here.” He tongued his teeth, “I know that your Divine was loved well by many, and not so well by some. I’m afraid I did not know her or her positions well enough to form an opinion, myself. What I can say is that I’ve come to know and trust many of the people who loved her best, and they spoke - and continue to speak - highly of what she represented.”

“She was our hope,” Aran whispered, somber, “The best of them. Our chance at a solution to all the void-tossed chaos.” 

“There you are, then,” Dorian agreed simply. 

Leliana considered them for a long moment, casting a glance to the priests arrayed around and behind her. “And what of the Circle of Magi?” 

“Here we go,” Aran breathed, lacing his fingers with Dorian’s.

“Based entirely on hearsay? Some sounded fine. Others sounded ridiculous. The whole tendency in the South to fear what is different is backwards and self-defeating; of course, that is wonderful news for my homeland, I’m sure.”

“Yes, what is your relationship to the Imperium?” Josephine asked. 

“Complicated,” Dorian lifted a brow. “Let’s say that I left for a reason, and I don’t believe it’s beyond redemption. Although it’s come rather close.”

“Brother Roderick?” Leliana inquired.

The priest huffed. “I would like it noted that I do not _like_ having a Tevinter close to… any of this. There are still too many questions…” he frowned, “But perhaps an insider’s perspective is what we need.”

“Insider’s perspective… into Tevinter?” Dorian tucked his chin up, “I would happily tell you all the naughty secrets that I know. Perhaps you all could be a good influence on my mother country. Stranger things have happened. Now what?”

“Now… we have a conversation. Would you mind giving us just a moment? Ser Keran can see you to a room.”


	9. Chapter 9

“I thought that you liked my clothes these days,” Aran muttered as Keran closed the door behind them. He remembered this room with its hastily gathered furnishings and the tapestries of dogs that were too long for the short ceiling. Eventually, Josephine had worked her magic on it, turning it into a suite for the first guests of the Inquisition. She clearly hadn’t gotten around to that yet.

“I like getting you out of them; there’s a difference.”

Aran snorted quietly.

“Still infuriated?” Dorian asked against his ear.

“ _Yes_.”

“Really? Even though nothing terrible happened?”

“ _Yet._ Nothing terrible has happened _yet._ ”

“Pessimist.”

“How-“

“Hold that thought.” Dorian flexed his hands, summoning energy through the fissured Veil to weave a low current of muddling whispers around them. It was so dreadfully, horrifyingly easy, a mere flex of will. “All right. You may continue.”

“How many bloody awful things have I survived without talking about this blighted curse?” Aran whispered in a hushed rush. “If people know… if they know who and what I am… the Maker only knows what they’ll do to me to try to understand it.”

“I don’t believe that’s something you need to worry about with these people.”

“Maybe not, but if they have a blether with someone they trust and that person tells someone else?”

“A what?”

”A blether, a- fuck, nevermind.” Aran slanted a worried glance at Dorian, “I’ve been an experiment. I don’t care to repeat the experience.”

“Aran,” Dorian smoothed his hand down Aran’s back. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You don’t always have a choice.”

“Then I shall be careful to make certain that I do. And should that fail - well, your friend with the sword is terrifying. Woe to anyone who tries to do anything to you on his watch.” 

Aran squinted at him curiously. “You really think Fenris is terrifying?”

“I’m not an idiot, Aran. He tore through my wards as though they were paper. No one breaks my drawn wards. Not without significant, time-intensive effort, during which my secondary wards historically end their attempt. I can only imagine what your friend would do to any _less_ wrought spell I or anyone else might cast. Barriers would be useless. He can probably muscle through offensive spells. I can understand Magister Danarius’ reasoning; to have a bodyguard like that in the Imperium would be invaluable to...” he trailed off, noticing Aran’s stillness. “I said that I understood it. Not that I _approved_.”

“Bit not good, still.”

“One must never fear the _comprehending_ of a thing, Amatus. Fear is the breaker of men. It makes cowards and monsters of us all. I do not wish to be a coward or a monster; I will take being a villainous scholar any day over that.”

“You aren’t villainous.” Aran scowled up at him. “And you’re not wrong. It’s only-”

“I thought that you appreciated forthrightness.”

“I do.” He tucked his chin against Dorian’s arm and studied the dogs in the tapestry. Golden brown. White and black. “You’ve just been… especially forthright since we arrived here.”

Dorian swallowed, glancing down at his hands. 

“Maybe I’m being sensitive. I feel… out of control? Out of my element. I’m afraid. And… This has been something I’ve done alone for so long… I don’t know how to share it. I think I’ve been taking that out on you, and I should-”

“No.”

Aran glanced up, brows drawing together. 

“Ever since we…” Dorian flexed his hand into a fist, eyeing it. “I’ve… it isn’t you.” He watched Aran’s hand cover his fist. Long fingers. Calloused palm. Ink still staining his thumb. 

“No?”

“...you are… potent,” he said carefully, barely able to voice the words. For fear of being overheard. For fear of saying what had been in his mind. He lifted his brows, thumbing the healing cut on Aran’s palm.

Aran’s fingers tightened on him for a moment, then relaxed. “Ah.” He worried his lip, “What did you mean, before? How did you know this would even work?”

“It’s… a long story.”

“You said I had an ‘elvhen protege’.”

“Not… I don’t think it was actually you. Or… it isn’t anymore. Or won’t be.”

Aran crossed his eyes, squishing his face up comically. 

“Stop that, you’ll get stuck that way.”

“I already am stuck this way,” he simpered through puckered lips, grinning as Dorian smushed his face about to fix him. “Okay, okay. So. Small words for the stupid man, please.”

“You came back… before you came back.”

Aran lifted a brow. “Maker and Mother, is this what I sound like?”

“Yes. You returned to us with an accessory named Birashi.” As Aran silently mouthed the name, Dorian selected what exactly he could tell Aran. He had to parse this delicately. How did you tell your one true love that he’d been trapped in the Fade for decades? Answer: you didn’t do it while awaiting judgement from the Inquisition.

“Was he cute?”

Dorian narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“The elf, was he cute?” Aran asked innocently. “Like… Zevran-esque, or…?”

“You weren't sleeping with him, Aran.”

“Oh.”

“For once.”

“Hey!” Aran ducked his head, muttering, “I mean, fair, but also ‘hey’.”

“Apparently, you brought him with you the first time when he was injured, and the second time, when you were. Blood was the connecting factor. Blood seemed the root of the spell. It was worth the risk to try.”

The rogue smoothed his hand down Dorian’s arm. “You’re sure about that?”

“It feels as though I’ve swallowed a thunderstorm,” he admitted painfully. “One made of sugared lightning and brandy cream clouds. Quite, quite excellent. The clarity- the speed of thought- the power of casting…” he swallowed. “It’s very… I can see how someone using this sort of power more than once might well lose their grip on more mundane matters such as empathy. Or ethics.”

“I see.” 

Dorian dragged his gaze up from their hands, heartbeat throbbing hard in his temple. “Do you?”

“Fuck,” Aran’s lips twitched into a weary, watery smile. “Yes. Gods, I thought something might be wrong with _us._ ”

“Something _is_ wrong with us,” Dorian told him seriously.

“Pfft. Magic. Magic fades.” He brought Dorian’s hand to his cheek, “Get it?”

He felt a certain lightness from the humor. From the fact that Aran was still wry and cracking wise despite everything. But he couldn’t laugh. Not this time. He felt as though he were looking through a mirror at himself. “When will it, do you think? As I’ve already lost years with you.”

“Aye,” Aran bit his lip, “but you’re here now. We could be stuck here for another few decades. Hip to hip. You’ll be sick to death of me.”

Dorian choked on a sob. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, struggling to fight the fearful ache that had swollen around his heart.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Aran held his dampening gaze steadily, “Void and Deep, I’m not bloody perfect. So long as we take turns being unstable wildlings, I think we’ll be just fine. Maybe even if we don’t. Who knows?” 

“Yes, but this is… I will have to do it again. At least once, to get us home, if not...” he shuddered. “You may have been right. This may well be the least intelligent thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done many ill-advised things.”

“I’ve known a mage or two who dabbled in the forbidden. They don’t all turn into madmen in towers. It’s going to be okay. Shitty decisions and damned consequences. Welcome to the Void.” He winked, smile slipping sideways, “We can figure something out.”

“‘Figure something out’,” Dorian blinked rapidly to clear his eyes. 

“In for a penny,” Aran shrugged. 

Dorian dragged him close to kiss the lopsided smirk from his face and the rascal let him, clutching at him like he wasn’t in the process of becoming his own worst nightmare. A maleficar, a monster... and Aran didn’t give a damn. His hands pressed to Dorian’s shoulders, pulling him down, leaning into him like a sail blown by strong winds. The mage scooped him closer, breathing in his faith like oxygen. For a time, there was only pressure, taste, and the slick sound of tongues beneath the hum of confusing whispers that cloaked them. Dorian pressed his lips together, leaning cheek to cheek with the rogue as they caught their breath, “We must focus on your predicament. If the Maker is with us, we’ll solve it and be able to avoid the risks to my soul in their entirety.” Dorian met his eyes, “You have focused primarily on survival - a fact that I am extremely grateful for, don’t mistake me. But surviving this spell is not the same as breaking it. We need information. We need resources. And that means letting others in. We have to trust them if they are to trust us.” 

“Maybe you’re right. To an extent. I haven’t tried, not outside of Tevinter. Just don’t tell them about the…” Aran lifted his brows, glancing at his wrapped palm.

“Of course not.”

“Don’t ‘of course not’ me, messere ‘he’s a time traveler.’”

“That’s Lord ‘he’s a time traveler’,” Dorian sniffed, drawing a laugh out of his ivory headed mule of a lover. “Although, you should consider… if Cole is here and as close with them as it sounds… he may have already told them more than that.”

Aran blinked. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Dorian lifted his brows. “He overshares more than you do.”

“Shit.” Aran stared at the door. “We need to find him as soon as we can. What do you think they’re talking about in there?”

“Spirits, mad magisters, and the efficacy of time travel, I expect.”

“So… the same as us?” 

A hard knock on the door sounded and Dorian dropped the protection of meaningless whispers as the door opened. “I suppose we’ll find ou-”

Aran grunted as a weight catapulted against his back, crushing him against Dorian as Dorian staggered back. 

“My tiny friend!”

“Oh, Maker,” Aran wheezed.

Dorian blinked, face to face over Aran’s head with a handsome bearded man wearing a smear of reddish clay across his face, as a massive black hound circled them. 

“You must be the Tevinter.” The man was covered in fur. His broad, tufted wolf fur collar sewn atop a thick bear fur cloak, his metal bracers lined with more wolf fur. He stank. His sway of soft raven curls stank. His sharply groomed beard stank. The war hound stank. His hands were very, _very_ strong, gripping Dorian on either side of Aran. 

“Yes,” Dorian whispered, trying not to inhale too deeply. 

“Nice arms! It’s good to meet you.” He grinned, baring white, white teeth. His eyes gleamed a merry gray, like clouded diamonds. “Are you taking care of our little anger management case?”

“Why… are you… here?” Aran gasped.

“Because I was invited, tiny friend!” the man boomed. “I’m supposed to help steer this ship, just like Kirkwall. Or do all the fighting. Maybe both? They weren’t clear.” He stepped back, clapping Aran on the back hard, peering down at the rogue’s reddened cheeks. “Are you all right?”

“Flattened.”

“Flattered? I’m still the same old me, Conchobar. Just the same old me with a fancy chair and a scepter. I do love the scepter. I brought it with me. See?” He unsheathed a massive sword from his waist, holding it forward, “I added a blade. Utility in all things, Mother always said, may she rest in the Maker’s palm. Left the chair at home, though; couldn’t be bothered. Far too heavy.”

“I can’t believe they made you a viscount.”

“Neither can I! I've been trying to convince them to take it back to no avail. Apparently what they’ve been wanting is someone who doesn’t want to be there.”

“Hi, Dog,” Aran whispered as the huge-headed hound shoved its jaw into his hands. 

Dorian watched a viscous dollop of drool dribble into Aran’s palms. “Its name is Dog?” 

“Its name is Seth,” the furred man smiled charmingly. “His name is Dog,” he nodded to the beast. “Say hello, Dog.”

Dog sat on his haunches and lifted a paw.

“I don’t suppose you have meat on you? If not, he’ll take your hand. Shake. I meant shake your hand.” Hawke uttered a completely fake embarrassed laugh, “Ah… never mind. Did you have a name, by the way, or is it just ‘the Tevinter’? Not that that isn’t catchy.”

“Davan,” Dorian said, eyeing the hound suspiciously.

“Don’t worry, he only bites bad people. He’s a great judge of character. Good genes.” Hawke smirked, “I’ve never met a Tevinter I didn’t stab. I could have sworn neither had the troublemaker. But Varric says you’ve a quick wit and you survived meeting Fenris, so I’ve decided that you, Davan, will be my first non-stabbed Tevinter. Is it non-stabbed or un-stabbed? Either way.”

“...thank you?”

“No trouble at all. What are friends for?” Hawke pinched Aran’s cheek, eliciting a bewildered squeak. “All right. Go make her happy.”

“Who-“ Aran blinked. “Bethany? She’s here?”

“Along with all the surviving mages of the Kirkwall Circle. Yes.” Hawke pointed to the door. “Go.”

Aran glanced to Dorian.

Hawke nudged him. “We’ll be right along.”

“Con?!” A dark haired woman poured into the room, with the same bright eyes as her brother. The family resemblance was startling. “We heard you were here!” She grasped Aran’s hands, beaming. “Oh, it is good to see you!”

“And you!” Aran grinned, sweeping the taller woman into an epic embrace.

“I was trying to get a moment, sweetness,” her brother rolled his eyes.

“You get all the moments.” She touched the shaved side of Aran’s head, brushing her fingers through his hair, “This look is becoming. I can actually see your eyes.” 

“His fault,” Aran nodded towards Dorian.

She glanced past Aran and her eyes widened. “My… Maker...”

“I know! Right?!”

“You’re a lucky mongrel,” she murmured.

At their side, Dog panted.

“I know!” Aran bit his lip, his ears reddening. “I know,” he said again, softer.

“Have I said that I like your friends?” Dorian asked, smiling as Aran’s blush deepened. “Lady Hawke,” he bowed slightly and kissed her fingers as she laughed delightedly. 

“He called me ‘Lady’,” she gushed.

“I heard. He clearly doesn’t know you,” Hawke added, tongue in cheek. “It’s freezing outside and my feet hurt. Let’s get a drink somewhere warmer, like the bottom of Lake Calenhad or the top of the Anderfels.”

“We’re supposed to wait here,” Aran lifted his brows. “Actually… wasn’t there a Templar out there?”

“Who, Keran? He’s a nice boy. I told him he could take a break. Off we go. I promised Fenris I’d rest before I started ruining everything here. If I get sick, he’ll burn me again.”

“Burn you?” Dorian asked, perplexed.

“Last time I had a sniffle, he forced me down and poured boiling chicken soup into my mouth. Couldn’t taste anything for a week. Which did save me from tasting his cooking, so it wasn’t all bad.” He circled around behind them and ushered them out. “Come, come. I’m not as young as I once was. Quickly now.”


	10. Chapter 10

There was something specifically inspiring about the Viscount of Kirkwall, Dorian thought as he was crushed onto a bench alongside mages and soldiers to listen to the wild tale of their recent journey from Kirkwall to Haven complete with hags and bogs and mysterious sea creatures. Vigor, was that the word? Unrestrainedness? Aran was tucked up into Dorian’s side, listening to the story with rolling eyes and a mug clutched in his hands. 

The viscount had brought more than mages to the resistance; he’d brought food, supplies, a pack of mabari hounds, and barrels of Free Marcher ale and whiskey. And more importantly, perhaps, his own energy which seemed to wash over the scared people of Haven. Here was the Champion of Kirkwall, after all, the slayer of dragons and qunari hordes. The sigh of relief throughout the assembled was palpable.

“Come on!” Hawke dragged a flushed, happily intoxicated Aran up from the bench and nudged him out to the middle of the floor. “Do that drinking number from the Bee!”

“Ach, no…” Aran ran a hand through his hair, glancing around, “too many folk.”

“Close your eyes, then. Come on!”

Aran sighed, red to his ivory roots, and cradled his mug to his belly, shutting his eyes. “Don’t be after makin’ faces at me when I can’t see ye,” he warned gruffly, then cleared his throat. In the midst of the rabble, his voice crept up, “Sit doon here me cronies, and gie us your craic; let the wind tak' the care o' this life on its back. Oor hearts tae despondency we never will submit, for we've aye been provided for, and sae will we yet…” It wasn’t so much a song as an ode spoken to a tune. Between the drink and the lyrics, his brogue was thick on his tongue, reminding Dorian of the night at Lake Calenhad and other drunken nights before and since. 

“And sae will we yet, and sae will we yet!” Hawke threw an arm around his friend from Ostwick, joining in. “For we've aye been provided for, and sae will we yet!”

“So fill us a tankard o' nappy brown ale. It'll comfort our hearts and enliven the tale, for we'll aye be the merrier the langer that we sit, for we drank tegither mony's the time, and sae will we yet!” It wasn’t even noon and the sway of the men and the others joining them was based on more than camaraderie. Heathens, Dorian chuckled to himself. 

“They really thought he was a spirit?” Bethany asked into his ear as more voices in the tavern joined in. “Do spirits get drunk and throw up on your shoes?”

“Yours, too?” Dorian smirked, “I know. Silly, isn’t it?”

“We’ve heard things, you know, about First Enchanter Wynne and what happened at the White Spire. To think there are spirits who can disguise themselves as men so thoroughly... it’s an eerie thought.”

“Oh, there are, of a certain rarity,” Dorian assured her. “But they aren’t something to be frightened of.”

She shook her head, “Of course you would say that.”

“Why, because I’m an evil Tevinter?”

“No, you’re confident,” she looked down into her mug of tea, the steam much less potent than the scent that had wafted from Aran’s. “But perhaps you’re confident _because_ you’re an evil Tevinter,” she added wryly. “My father was trained in the Circle and he taught me all he knew, but there’s so much he never learned. So much he never had an opportunity to learn, before he escaped. To think of a whole land where we could study in peace…”

“Tevinter isn’t all roses,” Dorian admitted, “but that part… yes. I am sorry you’ve lacked that opportunity.”

“The Rite of Tranquility is the whole problem. If they didn't have that to hold over us, we'd have so many more options.” 

They glanced to a pair of apostates down the table. It was fascinating, the way Dorian could so easily distinguish between apostates and Circle mages here. Even now that they were all technically apostates. There was a certain swagger to the ones who’d been outsiders all along, especially among their brothers and sisters. A welcoming swagger, perhaps, but still… The voice belonged to a newcomer who had just joined the table; a man with a rough cut of stubble, shoulder length blonde hair, and a worried expression, sitting alongside a frankly stunning young woman. What was it with all the blue eyes and blond hair that had descended on this town? 

“And sae will we yet, and sae will we yet! For we drank tegither mony's the time, and sae will we yet!”

“Right!” Bethany was agreeing. “If we wanted to fight back... or just engage in intelligent debate... they made sure we couldn’t do it.”

The pretty apostate tugged at her fellow’s hair, “We came to eat, not debate.”

“Sorry about that. It’s so like being back in the Circle, being here,” he said abashedly. “Granted, with fewer Templars. Still a few too many for my liking. I’m eating!” He laughed when she tugged again, sopping stew with a hunk of brown bread, “I’m eating, see?”

“You were in a Circle?” Bethany asked. “Which?”

“Ferelden,” the man pointed to himself, then thumbed the woman beside him, “Ostwick.”

“Not for some time,” she smiled. “We were fugitives before it was the thing to do.”

“Ahead of our time,” the man winked at her.

“But you’re here now. Does that mean you think the Inquisition's call for a new Conclave is a good idea?”

“They’re hosting another one?” Dorian goggled. “Already? After the last one literally exploded?”

“What are we supposed to do? The problems are still the same as they were before. Worse, with this horror above us. We’re more at risk now than ever.” The golden haired girl leaned forward to see him more clearly. There was something… something about the turn of her nose and the stubbornness of her chin that tugged at Dorian’s awareness. Ostwick? An entirely different reality. It wasn’t possible.

“There must be something we can do to heal the sky,” Bethany said. “And that will prove that we can be trusted. Perhaps we can return to the Circles and-“

“If it's Tranquility or death,” the man interrupted grimly, “then a return to the Circle means a return to every confrontation being a life-or-death struggle.”

“I know,” Bethany sighed, “but... there are good people in the Circle, the Chantry. And if it’s true what they’re saying about First Enchanter Wynne being here-”

“It is,” Dorian inclined his head, “we just met her.”

“See?” The blonde woman nudged her companion. “Then Grand Enchanter Fiona is probably on her way as well.”

“We’ll see when we see,” the man sucked his fingers clean. Was that... armored batting under his feathered collar? Who was this fellow’s tailor?

“There has to be a way to reason with them,” Bethany insisted.

“Not if they take away your ability to reason.” He pinned Dorian with a curious stare, “You’re from Tevinter. I’ll bet they don’t have the Rite of Tranquility there.”

“Certainly, they do.”

“Really? For the Maker’s sake, why?”

“For the same reasons it exists here, one imagines.”

“Fear of magic?”

Dorian tucked his head to the side, “Ah, perhaps not. No. For… punitive measures.” He smiled tightly, lifting his brows. “It _is_ worse than death, or so they say. Rather an excellent threat to keep a person in line, don’t you think - eternal torture.”

“But you don’t live under its shadow.”

“Egad, no, haven’t you heard? We’re all amuck with blood magic. One would really have to irk the Magisterium to receive such a punishment. Fail to attend the right parties, for instance, or bring a tacky gift to a wedding. Something like that.”

“They would make someone Tranquil for that?” Bethany asked, horrified.

“He’s joking,” the blonde woman smiled, then quirked a brow, “Aren’t you?”

“So fill up your glass, let the bottle gae roun', For the sun it will rise, tho' the moon hae gaen doon and tho' the room be rinnin roun' aboot, it's time enough tae flit when we fell we aye got up again, and sae will we yet!” Dorian looked away with an innocent shrug as Aran threw his head back to sing the final lines, joining in on the chorus. “And sae will we yet, and sae will we yet! When we fell we aye got up again, and sae will we yet!” Their eyes met and held across the tavern and Aran offered him a bright, lopsided grin. Say will we yet, indeed. 

As Hawke resumed storytelling amidst clamorous hoots and applause, Aran clattered back to Dorian’s side, squishing himself into a spot barely large enough for a pint. 

“So, ready to run yet, now you’ve heard my singing?” he asked, blinking and flushed.

“Never.” Dorian kissed his cheek, “Although, I'll admit you are probably better suited to drinking songs than Orlesian ballads.”

“Nae probably aboot- about- it.” He hiccuped and coughed quickly to cover it up. “Sorry.”

“I like your brogue.”

“I like you.”

“I know.”

“I _know_ you, don’t I?” the talkative apostate leaned down the table, pointing as he stood excitedly. “Yes! Oh my my my! Look at this, Miranda! It’s your cousin, or uncle or something, yes?” He beamed. “Oh, it’s _good_ to see you! Now I know we’re in good hands. It’s me, Anders! Ah, it’s been years, hasn’t it? Remember that bit of business with our mutual friend? We’re still doing just fine, thank you!”

Aran stared at him, all the ruddy, bemused humor leaking from his face to leave him nearly as pale and transparent as a ghost. “Miranda and Anders…”

“Yes!” Anders laughed, “It’s us! And!” He stood, opened the sack perched against his belly to reveal a small furry head with dark pointed ears, “Ser Pounce-a-lot, look, it’s your friend who scratches your chin.”

“Oh no,” Aran whispered.

“Yes! Oh, this is wonderful! You look frightful! Are you unwell?”

“I was wrong,” Aran shivered, staring at them. “Oh, Maker, I was wrong. I got it wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is a traditional Scottish bothy tune you can listen to here, if you like: https://open.spotify.com/track/5dLDeH5fzsxKJw0vCbzFB5?si=vNxuUGyuQLOk7UgB3SxXBw


	11. Chapter 11

“What?” Anders cocked his head to the side. “Got what wrong?”

“Started a bit too early, that’s all.” Dorian cleared his throat, “Never should let him drink before noon. Utterly unseemly. So nice to have met you.” 

“We’re practiced healers,” Miranda said, rising as Dorian drew Aran up and off the bench. “Let us help.”

“Not something you could help with, I think,” Dorian assured her. The resemblance had been strange before, never mind that now he knew for certain who she was to Aran. His sister. In another realm. Maker. Little wonder he looked as though the wind might blow him over. “A little walk and cold should do the trick.” He looked to Bethany, “Do let your brother know we haven’t wandered too far.”

“Yes, of course,” she looked at him solemnly, about to speak, but Dorian simply kept a smile in place as he navigated them through the crowded tavern and out the door. 

The snow was falling anew, in thick wet flakes that caught at their whiskers as they trudged off. Dorian angled them up a small rise and past the apothecary, around behind the little building then up a small trail he remembered from times past. Aran was a solid, shivering lump against his side, staring blankly ahead, silent. As they exited the narrow path to the rise he remembered, Dorian paused. He didn’t remember the shrine here. There had been a slab of rock before, a nice place to sit. Now there was a small altar beset with herbs, flowers, engraved brass bowls leaking thick, fragrant smoke to the smudged canopy above. Likely a nod to the impressive number of priests still present in the town. 

Nevertheless, it was private. Pleasant, even. Dorian brushed snow off a low wooden bench and settled onto it alongside his silent companion. 

For a time, he allowed himself to simply sit and hold. He’d encouraged Aran to speak whenever and whatever he wished. They’d agreed, hadn’t they? He couldn’t force him to talk. He watched the incense smoke curl upwards as the snow filtered down past it, collecting on the parts of the altar that weren’t covered. It was serene: the dichotomy of motion, the simplifying nature of cold. The fragility of beauty and the beauty of the breakable.

The worn gear they’d collected from the hunter’s cabin wasn’t going to cut it. They needed layers, real solid ones. Better boots, and ones that fit. Tonics and potions and means to carry them. He could do that much repurposing what they had. He smiled slightly, remembering the horror on his mother’s face when she’d caught him darning a hole in one of his robes once. Slave work, she’d called it. Self-sufficiency, he’d thought; little did she know how many times before he’d patched the same tears after fights with his classmates. The little braggart ruffians.

“I thought I saved her. I thought I saved them both.”

Dorian glanced down. Aran’s cheek was pillowed against his chest, the snow collecting and blending seamlessly into his stark white hair. Rather like the diamonds that had once been strung there in adornment, but prettier. Prettier in its transience. More beautiful because Aran was here, with him, and not with his well-appointed doppelgänger. Dorian waited, ready to listen. But that seemed to be all that Aran planned to share. “The apostates?” he prodded gently.

Aran stood quickly, pacing away, rubbing his hands together in the cold. 

Dorian leaned forward, steepling his fingers before his lips to watch him move. Still unsteady, but the gaiety was long gone. “Mind your step.”

Aran stilled, turning his face to the sky. “I could have sworn… I could have sworn they were… I’ve no idea where she is.”

“Miranda?” Dorian clarified for himself. 

“I didn’t think she’d be… I thought I’d gotten her out of harm’s way. Shepherded her away from the Circle before things went all to shit.”

“You did, apparently. She looks well.” 

Aran stared at him for a long moment, then looked to the path down the hill. “I did.”

“Yes.”

“Here.” Aran’s jaw tightened. “And at home, where I abandoned her the first time, I stopped looking for her. I called Leliana off. I thought she was safe.” 

“You said yourself, you thought that you’d protected her. You didn’t abandon her.”

“Didn’t I? What is the difference?” Aran stared daggers into the clouds. “She’s my sister. The morning they came for her, I watched her climb into the carriage and then went to catch crabs on the shore.”

“You were a child.”

“Aye. And later? The universities are rife with Tranquil, did you know that? Excellent record keepers. I saw what could happen to her.”

“Did you really think she was in danger of that?”

“They all are, every mage in the Southern kingdoms. Before Kirkwall… before Kirkwall, I’d have told you the Marches were a far sight better than Ferelden, and certainly better than Orlais. I was wrong. Nowhere is safe. And I stood by and let them keep her and never wondered.” He gritted his teeth, “I tried to make it up to her. I thought- But she’s here. With him. And that means...” He scrubbed his face and shook his head roughly, “I can’t keep track of any of it. All the blighted notes I take mean fuck all.”

What could he say? Aran wasn’t entirely incorrect. His notes were exacting, certainly, or seemed to be. So many of the ones Dorian had seen were in code or obscure languages that had only been partially translated for him. But he didn’t always return with those notes. He’d leave with one notebook and return with a scroll or a different set of bound parchment. Things were steadily being lost in his travels: notes, details of his experiences, memories, confidence, faith... Paper wasn’t good enough. Another method was needed. Something that could last, survive the travels, remain whole and unobscured in the deserts and the oceans and the Fade. In the meantime... “They mean that you care and that you’re trying.”

Aran snorted. “Fantastic.”

“They give you a purpose and a direction.”

“Really fucking great.” Aran kicked at a pile of snow. 

Dorian frowned, “What would you like me to say? You try to keep everything to yourself and you only tell us anything when you’re forced to. Paper is fallible. Memory, even yours, is fallible.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“I don’t know what you know, or what you think. Why don’t you tell me?”

Aran turned to meet his study. Eyes reddened and watery with cold and drink and sorrow. The shadows below them. The morning’s stubble he hadn’t bothered with. Snow-flocked. Beset. “What I think.” His nostrils flared as he fought a fresh wave of self-recrimination. Dorian could see him tightening the muscles in his hands, his shoulders, his jaw… trying to hold himself together. “If Anders is here with Miranda, then he… then what I thought I’d done to… He’s out there, somewhere, in our world, alone. And so is she. Alone and afraid. Or dead. Or worse.” He swallowed uneasily. 

“You aren’t responsible for everyone else, Amatus.”

“I’m responsible for him.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw what happened the first time. I saw how the decisions he made at the Chantry broke him down. Tore him apart. He lost who he was, who they were. He was trying so hard to do what was right and it killed the parts of him that were good. Those decisions, those actions, made him more and less than he had been, and I couldn’t bear to watch him fall apart again…” Aran said softly. “But there- that time- he _wouldn’t have_ \- do you see? He wanted to get the Tranquil out of the city and find a way to reverse the Rite. Free the mages. Find a new path, a better way. And I thought- I thought I could help him, get him away from the place where he would have to make that choice. Get him far, far away and save him from it. From what had to be done.”

“What had to be done?”

Aran met Dorian’s gaze, fearful and miserable, “They had to see. They had to see what it was like to have everything taken from them. Anders wanted justice. He _is_ Justice. And I…” his voice tore and split as he shivered, “I am revenge.”

Dorian rose, crossing to him, “Aran…”

“Don’t-“ Aran wrapped his arms around himself, backing away, as tears melted the flakes that had caught upon his cheeks. “Don’t- didn’t you hear me? Don’t you see what I’ve done? They blamed him for it. Because of his politics! Can you imagine? They couldn’t see how _good_ he was. Marian, Carver, Sebastian… even Varric. They all turned against him. But if this Anders is here… the one who is well and happy and whole and avoided the whole- that means that our Kirkwall… That was me. I did that. I sewed chaos in my wake to bring about a war when there might have been some kind of peace, some kind of resolution, but all I could think of was fire. I can’t be trusted. You can’t trust me.”

”I can.”

”How?!”

”Because I do.”

”You _can’t_ \- I became the blade, Dorian, and he’s using me to shred every tapestry I touch. _Using-_ fuck. That makes it sound like I’m not a perfectly willing fucking instrument of destruction- everything that’s happened to me… everything that’s happened to us, to our world, is _my doing_.” He stepped back again, folding in on himself, and Dorian watched long, narrow fingers reaching out of empty air to cross each other at his chest and hold. Aran froze, his gaze ratcheting up from the hands on him to meet Dorian’s eyes as the crest of a large brimmed hat rose like the moon behind him.

“Let go.” A familiar voice. Light as clouds, soft as silk. “You can let go. They won’t hear.”

Aran buckled, falling to his knees in Cole’s embrace, and a scream tore out of his throat, visceral and impotent and enraged all at once. It was a ragged ululating wretched sound that circled around them as it shredded on and on. So long Dorian couldn’t imagine he had breath to continue. He could feel the sharp edges of the shout against his skin like ice. He could see Aran’s teeth biting and tearing at the wind. And Dorian could only watch in horror, imagining what it might be doing inside Aran. Tearing him apart? Slicing him into pieces all over again? Or was this the echo of when that had occurred, finally escaping the tight hold he’d been keeping on it? That and everything else. 

When it was finally over, they held their dramatized tableau in the sound of gasping breaths and snowfall and the sizzle of incense. Dorian was rooted where he stood, afraid that the wrong move or step might set off another tornado of fury and horror. He could feel his own tears, dripping salt warmth into his beard, even as Aran’s head dropped to hang, exhausted. 

Cole remained locked against Aran’s back, his brow furrowed just a touch as he looked up at Dorian. “Hello.” 

“Ha- He-“ Dorian cleared his throat, “Yes. Hello.”

“You need to come here,” Cole said softly. “You should take him.”

Dorian couldn’t remember walking forward, nor kneeling to gather his lover into his arms, but he found that he had. He cradled Aran into his lap, collecting his limbs against him, his head beneath his chin, and held him close as his breaths slowly evened into a regular rhythm. 

Cole stepped back, bowing his head, and there was a feel like pressure releasing in Dorian’s ears. The sounds of the town below them returned in a rush. The clatter of wheels on snowy cobbles. The clang of hammers on steel. The ring of sword against sword. The chatter and laughter and song of people at work. The subtle song of a blade being drawn from its sheath. Dorian frowned, glancing up as Cole finished drawing the blade. “Cole…?” 

Cole flipped the handle towards him and nodded. “Now. While there’s no energy left to fight.” He pressed the grip into Dorian’s hand. “You can take us.”

“Where?” But of course, he knew. He knew what Cole wanted. And it was madness. “No.”

“I can’t help from here. There are too many walls. It is too bright. There is too much magic in the way. Out here. Inside, it is clearer, if I can reach it.” Cole pressed harder. “You can do it. Follow, like before, but closer. Listen.”

Dorian stared at him, then looked at the blade. Compassion? he wondered. Compassion to a fault? Was it worth it? He wanted to cut, wanted to ride the burning stream of power. Wasn’t that a sign in itself that he shouldn’t? But he couldn’t forget the look in Aran’s eyes, tears streaming as he screamed… 

Cole rested his hands on his shoulder and Aran’s and met his gaze. “It’s going to be alright.”

“No,” Dorian disagreed quietly. But if it was him or Aran, he knew now who he would choose. “It won’t.” He stared at the edge of the blade with his heart in his throat. Thin, cold, and sharp. He’d already done this. He’d known he would have to again. 

But that was keeping Aran close. Survival. And this was… invasive. 

He looked up at Cole’s steady, waiting, cornflower gaze. No concerns there. Then again, there wouldn’t be. It wasn’t _his_ blood. It wasn’t his action that would throw them into Aran’s mind against his will. 

He could hear his father’s voice in his head: _the resort of weak minds._ Weak minds.

“Now, use your will,” Cole insisted. “Before it’s too late.”

 _Too late?_ he wondered. Aran had survived worse than this. He’d survived doing the thing he was afraid of in this moment. And the years of knowledge of what he had done. Not knowing when or where it had happened didn’t change things… not to the degree that he would… what? Fall asunder? After what they’d just talked about? Aran was a walking raw nerve. Fragile, yes, but unbreakable. Resilient. Always coming back from whatever was thrown at him. 

_When we fall, we’ll aye get up again_ , he’d sung. “And say will we yet,” Dorian murmured.

“What?” Cole frowned, just slightly, his eyes narrowing in question. 

And Dorian felt his stomach tighten. 

Not Cole. 

“What did you do?” he whispered, reaching through the shredded veil for mana.

“I helped. We have to help him. Together. Isn’t that what we’re meant to do?” Cole lifted his brows, all curious and hopeful. “Help the hurting? Solve the unsolvable? We are the saviors of Thedas. Just us. They need us.”

Not Cole at all. 

“Now you’re just being stubborn.” Cole’s soft lips stretched wide… wide… slitting up into his cheeks. “I’ve been watching you. I’ve seen what you can do. So much more than you even know is possible. So much power is waiting in these veins. You’ve only had the tiniest of tastes. It’s time we become better acquainted, I think.”

“Fuck off,” Dorian sneered.

“Now, now. My brothers and sisters have tasted your ilk a time or two, Tevinter. These pitiful specimens that surround you are but shadows to your light. Come and show me the kind of man you really are. Let us stop hiding, shall we?”

“Let go of him. Now.”

“Let go?” Not-Cole laughed, his face half opening with rows upon rows of crooked, sharp teeth. “But he is the doorway! I told you to follow, mage!”

Dorian threw the blade to the side and wrapped his arms tight around Aran, sinking the threads of his power into the earth beneath them as the green light enveloped them. 

“Let’s make a deal; let’s see what he’s been hiding,” the voice slithered into his ear as the light burst to blinding. “I know you’ve been dying to know...”


End file.
